LuckyStriker's World

Trekoskraal in our Jimny

2011-08-30T20:07:00.001+02:00

So this weekend the wife, the kid and I went to St'Helena Bay for some R&R.
Here are a couple of pictures of our Saturday Afternoon Drive.

My wife teaching our girl about nature

This sandy trail is at Duiker Eiland near Britania Bay

My daughter loves our little Jimny. I like to save money on vehicles so that I can spend the cash on what's REALLY important; things like holidays.

A trail between Britania Bay and Paternoster

Poser! Showing off my newly installed winch

Why a winch on a Jimny you ask? Surely they can't get stuck.
My family and I don't like to travel with groups. Consequently we need to be able to save ourselves when we get in a pickle.

Poser! Showing off the yellow OME legs

Playing on the beach. We didn't actually ride on the beach proper because it is illegal and irresponsible. There, I said it

My girl having fun

Stocking up on pickled calamari and curried mussels.

Little sandy trails to Trekoskraal. Fortunately the Jimny is narrow enough not to get scratched by the bushes and branches. It also turns on a dime so we could even ride quad-bike tracks if we wanted to.

Flowers were out

Looks a little like Ireland, but nicer

Trekoskraal

The wide angle lens flattens the landscape. Believe me when I say this dune is deceptively tall. It needed 4-Low, second gear.

Nice little trails through the dunes

By now the sand was getting a thick and it was time to let some air out of the tyres. 2Bar was slicing through the sand rather than gliding on top of it.

I dropped my family off in the shade with some snacks. The little one wanted to play in the sand rather than ride around the whole day.
Dad also wanted to play in the sand!

And then it was time to get serious again as we headed off toward the sea shore to find a secluded beach.

Chicken sandwiches and a light beer. Damn it's tough in Africa!!

We emerged from the dunes outside Jacobsbaai and came across some girls playing in the bay. Our daughter wanted to join them but she is still to little.

Shelly Point lighthouse

Winding down the day as the sun sets.

After putting our daughter to bed we watched the crescent moon with its back toward Venus.

A great day in a great little car.
My name is LuckyStriker and I am lucky to live in such a wonderful country.

Extreme Gardening in the Cederberg

2011-06-21T11:42:00.009+02:00

11-12 June 2011

At the foot of Sneeuberg, forty shivering volunteers group together, rubbing their hands for warmth under a large autumn Oak. A dozen rangers stand off to the side between two Land Cruisers. Everyone is here to return something nearly lost forever to the Cederberg.
The excitement is tangible and smiles flash to and fro.
Most of the volunteers know each other from previous trysts in these same mountains. Everyone brought spades and bottles of water. Some are families and others single, some are wealthy, and some are not. It seems unlikely that such a group would have assembled under ordinary conditions.

Cars parked under the old oak

Carl Pretorius of JustTrees, a nursery outside Paarl, thanks us for coming and clarifies to the newcomers the reason why we are here. The famous Clanwilliam Ceders (Widdringtonia cederbergensis) of the Cederberg need a boost in numbers.
Two 4x4 bakkies are loaded with two year old ceder tree saplings (not to be confused with cedars). Were they human and had they known of the aspirations and hope placed upon them, they probably would have feinted from the pressure.
With the speeches over we begin the trek to the top of the majestic mountains. As an extra incentive CapeNature decided to allow private 4x4’s up Sneeuberg for this occasion, just this once. It’s an unprecedented event and many of us take advantage of the bonus, including me in my Jimny. Most of the volunteers opt to walk instead. Partly because the two hundred year old pass is too treacherous for their vehicles but mostly because it’s just great to stretch the legs in this awesome landscape.

Walkers and vehicles going up the mountains

We are going right to the top because that’s where our trees will have the best chance of survival. At the very top you can see the silhouetted figure on a ceder. There are a lot of leopard in these mountains. We saw fresh spoor

The twisting twin track is overgrown with bracken and fynbos but as we leave the glacier valley behind and ascend the mountain, the plant life changes to restios and wagon trees. The hikers have an advantage and it is somewhat maddening to be overtaken by them. Child legs are however not made for mountaineering and the rangers’ Land Cruisers soon resemble a kids choo-choo, complete with the associated sugar-rush hullabaloo. My wife and daughter joined them and I feel a little lonely in my Jimny. But I don’t mind, I know how much fun it is to bounce though the veldt on the back of a bakkie.

Climbing the foothills of Sneeuberg (2025m). The road is not open to the public and nowadays it is only used by fire figters and hikers.

Old Leopard trap. Rika du Plessis explains how woodcutters and trappers set the simple trip mechanism.

Jo Jimbo, the little samurai!

Beautiful landscapes.

Hikers crossing one of a hundred streams.

Fantastic valleys. The volunteers had to get to the conservancy on their own coin and bring their own tools. The Land Cruisers did ferry their spades and trees for free though.

The pass is very well constructed and rangers maintain it in case they have to hurry to the top to fight unseasonal fires.

Over an hour later, but almost at the top.

After more than an hour our group assembles a few hundred metres below Sneeuberg’s peak. Ceders only grow in a narrow topographical band. Not below 900m and never above 1700m. Nowadays the climate is a little warmer than it was a decade ago, which means the band is growing alarmingly narrower.
It gets explained to us that fires also sweep across these mountains ever more frequently and that they will definitely be a threat to our young trees. It is therefore important that we find shelter away from grasses to plant our saplings. I tread through the veldt alongside Rika du Plessis, manager of Matjiesrivier Nature Reserve. I mention that I find it quite strange that an entire region is named after a tree, particularly one that doesn’t grow widespread. She shifts the weight of her bagged sapling to her hip and tells me that there used to be forests of ceders in these mountains.

Choose your tree!

There was an insatiable need for durable wood in the eighteenth century and it was partly fed by ceders. Entrepreneurial colonists, eager to strike out away from the strict Dutch East India Company, moved to the newly discovered Cederberg valleys. Here they encountered a seeming inexhaustible supply of trees, all perfect for planking. The forests were quickly converted to furniture and construction material.
Later, under the Union Jack, naturalists and missionaries met these wild mountain men and were shocked at the rampant destruction with no regard for sustainability.
It took a long time to bring the practises to a close. In the end the natural fynbos of an entire valley had to give way for a fast growing and profitable pine plantations that would lure the woodcutters away from the peaks.
In the hundred years that followed the forests never returned. Their numbers are still in decline and the ceder is on the critically endangered list with small hope of survival.

The information weighs me down and I recall an old joke to elevate the mood:
Paddy seeks employment as a woodcutter and the foreman asks him:
“Where’d you work before now?”
Paddy: “In the Sahara”
“But there aren’t any trees in the Sahara!”
“Not any more...” grins Paddy
The joke isn’t as funny as it was before. Rika smiles but follows up with a sigh. Oom Jan, one of the rangers within earshot, looks up from the hole he was digging and quotes in Afrikaans:
“Van elke berg, waar nog so kort die kranse. Geverf was deur die son met karmosyn. Oor al ons land daar trek die nag 'n skadu, Groen as die blare van 'n sederboom.”
I nod politely at the melodrama but wonder dumbly what it means, unfamiliar with C. Louis Leipoldt’s epic poem and the possible prophesy.

My daughter struggles with her tree and I relieve her of it. The rocky ledges aren’t child’s play with a bagged sapling under each arm and a shovel clenched between the teeth. Beads of sweat quickly pearl on my forehead.
My wife finds a few rocky fissures that look promising. There are few grasses here between the boulders and we guess that our trees might grow up protected from fires. It is difficult to dig a deep enough hole in the stony soil but the miracle of ceders is that they take root in he unlikeliest of places.
I saw some ceders earlier in the day. They were artificially nurtured on farms down in the valley, straight and symmetrical like conifers. Apparently that isn’t an unfair comparison since Clanwilliam Ceders aren’t cedar trees at all but cypresses. Way up here Old Man Ceder grows tough and gnarly from within split stone. He looks like the bonsai on The Karate Kid’s emblem, windswept and full of character.

We planted our first tree in a rocky fissure where fire won’t get to it. It doesn’t need direct sunlight to grow and requires even less soil. This should be a good spot.

Around every tree’s neck hangs a token with a unique number stamped on it. Patrick Lane, manager of Cederberg Nature Reserve, wears his legs out to stumps as he tracks down the spread group of volunteers. In his hand is a GPS unit which he uses to log the position of every planted tree and its corresponding number. He looks satisfied with the spot I chose for 38536. I name my sapling Mr. Miyagi but Patrick only cares about the numbers, not the sentimentalities. Then he moves on to a posterior bobbing behind some rocks. The owner of the rear end is hard at work planting his own Daniel-san. Everywhere I look, I see jiggling bums, and only occasionally do I see someone sitting up, taking a break. While I’m busy looking around my daughter scoops a caterpillar from the ground and tries to make it comfortable it on our newly planted tree.
For a moment I consider taking it from her and squishing it between my fingers. I don’t want to take any chances with Mr.Miyagi’s health. But then I recognize how silly I’m being. I can’t keep watch over my tree forever and I can’t protect it from life’s knocks. Besides, my wife assures me, ceders are worm resistant.

Each tree is tagged with a unique serial number. After planting and watering it, the GPS coordinates were taken and matched with the number. We’ll be back in a few years to see how ours are doing.

She shovels soil in the Cederberg. Our second tree gets patted down and watered. Good luck little one.

Worm sign! Miri and I study a small caterpillar.

Mid afternoon rainclouds gather above us. We take it as a sign to start packing. The last tree gets a home and we start the exodus down the mountain. En route to the parking spot by the great oak tree I keep thinking of 38536’s chances.
Attempts to rescue the Clanwilliam Ceder have been going on since the sixties. In the eighties the reserves even started their own nurseries but they couldn’t produce enough seedlings economically. This is why Carl and his professional nursery, and other like it, were asked for assistance.
Despite the enormous undertaking, the older trees still die at nearly the same rate as they are replaced. Worst of all is the statistical mortality rate of about 70% for newly planted saplings. But no one even thinks about hanging up the gloves, not while there is still a fighting chance...

Mr. Miyagi

Ahead of me on the track stands a group of walkers, congregated around a girl with a field scope. Her name is Megan Murgatroyd and she researches endangered Black Eagles. She points out the nest high up on the sheer cliff face. Two downy chicks stare back at us over the twiggy rim of their nest. Their mom is away to find food and evidently hadn’t decided which of the two will be allowed to live. Fortunately Homo sapiens is less animalistic... at least as long as he has food in his belly.
Back at the cars we are greeted by a wonderful sight. Tannie Bet who lives nearby delivers a big bucket of hot gord soup and bowls of freshly baked bread. Salivating like hungry winter wolves around a steaming caribou we dive into the feast. We eye one another to make sure one doesn’t dish up more food than the other.

Megan lets us use her field scope to check out the Black Eagle nest

Hot food!

Toyota Land Cruiser – the choice of mountain rangers and Eskom field engineers – game rangers and dewy eyed students seem to prefer Land Rovers

Carl Pretorius and Patrick Lane offer heartfelt thanks and everyone poses for a group photo. With feelings of satisfaction and accomplishment we bid each other goodbye, get in our cars and head home. In a year everyone will hopefully be back to replant some more trees where they are needed. Perhaps it is a lost cause but some sort of restitution attempt desperately needs to be made. It can be done. After all, didn’t the black eyed and twist ankled Karate Kid won his final fight at the end of the movie?

The group

If you’d like to participate in the next tree planting ceremony in the Cederberg, call the Cederberg Nature Reserve offices direct on: +27 (27) 482 2403
Or contact The Custodians of the Red Ceder Project on: +27 (21) 871 1595 or admin@justtrees.co.za

Syncarpha canescens or Sewejaartjies to you and I

But the story doesn't really end here. We spent the night at Rika's house and the next day we explored a great little dirt road on our way home.

Pleased with the day’s work. Miri posing for some pics with her new favourite thing; a tree

2010 Suzuki Jimny 1.3

2011-06-15T13:43:00.015+02:00

My Jimny

To be honest, I've never cared much for cars. Motorcycles are more my thing, particularly 'Adventure' bikes. But when Suzaan and I got Miri it seemed like a good time to get a car that could go more or less where my bikes could.

When I saw the Jimny I thought: "Gee, that thing looks kinda girly...but it has potential!" I didn't want a huge 4x4 like a Land Rover or Hummer so the diminutive Suzuki was a definite contender.

This is what it looked like when I bought it
Not bad, but not that appealing either.

After picking it up from the dealer one of the first things I did was change the tyres. City slicks wouldn't work in the terrain I had planned for it.

Here is a list of changes I made in the first six months we had the Jimny:

Tinted windows (yes, I know it looks like a Colombian drug lord's ride)
BF Goodrich All-Terrain tyres for improved grip
Old Man Emy suspension (Coils and shocks) - a much better ride
T-Max winch (2400lbs)
Better recovery points
Frontrunner roof rack - a much needed addition. Don't know how I got along without it

This is what it looks like right now:

Future modifications include:

KC Daybreakers 130w
Snorkel
3cm Coil spacers
Black vinyl hood
Lucky 8-ball decal

Future plans:
Not set in stone

I will keep you updated on my progress

Mighty Mouse vs. Raging Orange

2011-01-02T11:25:00.038+02:00

26 December 2010 - 1 January 2011

It is dark around us, ten o’clock on a moonless New Years Eve. We are close to being engulfed by a raging river in the bone dry Richtersveld of all places!
The winch cable strains under tension. The rev-counter needle skirts just below the red, indicating the approaching limit of the engine’s power. Smoke and dust roil from the wheels and overrun my visibility.
A dusty, brown cloud floods into the cab through an open window. Grit stings my bloodshot eyes. I hear my two-year old daughter Miri’s concerned voice behind me.
My wife, Zanie, stands outside the Jimny’s blazing beams. Her calls guide me through the rocky obstructions rapidly being veiled by the cloak of dust. To our right the mighty Orange is overflowing its banks and rising threateningly.

Five days earlier we were in a completely different mood. We finally had the chance to go on holiday as a family. The Jimny was roughly six months old but already kitted out with a winch, suspension upgrade, all-terrain tyres and various little bling-bling modifications in preparation for holiday fun.
Miri, little over a month away from her third birthday, was very excited about our trip and had been diligent in her own preparations, sorting out essential toys and packing her Ben-10 sleeping bag and little camping chair.

Day 1-2 Sunday 26 December 2010
The first part of our week-long trip started with a lazy drive up the R27 along the West Coast. Just south of Elandsbaai was a Spoornet service road that took us around the left side of the Bobbejaansberg. It is a highly recommended detour with beautiful views of the ocean.
Closer to Elands Bay is the little Verlorevlei estuary which we crossed again and again and again until Zanie told me to cut it out. We emerged just behind the Elands Bay Hotel.

Crossing the Verlorevlei estuary at its shallowest point

Ahoy!

Miri plays with her cousins Gabi and Jack who we met up with in Lambert's Bay

After spending the night on friends’ farm near Doring Bay we continued our trek up the coast.
Our route took us up sandy jeeptracks all along ocean vistas. We passed places with colourful names such as Gert du Toit se Baai, Malkopbaai and Jurg se Kaja.

We joined friends at Doringbaai. Deon and I enjoy Miri's antics

Suzaan, Lizel and Miri swimming in a converted dam. Toffee the cat keeps vigil

Boesman the gentle horse and Whiskey the dog

Country girl

Good morning Boesman

Take me to your leader

C-c-cold water. Sandy tracks near Pikkers Bay, some 30km west of Koekenaap, lead to coastal vistas

My girls

Dr. Andrew Wright Memorial

We reached the Groen River estuary long after noon. From there we entered the Namaqua Coast National Park. The park had some seriously sandy tracks and for the first time on the trip I had to engage low-range, four-wheel drive.
We pulled into Hondeklipbaai right before sunset. We were surprised that the 280km day took 10hours to drive. The plan was to stealthcamp somewhere between the Aristea shipwreck and the De Beers gate, but the wind was howling along the beach.
Luckily there was an unfurnished tent available at the Skulpieskraal Tented Lodge for a lowly R50.

Sandy tracks

This Jeep got stuck and we helped to dig it up

Earning her keep by opening and closing gates

Day 3 Tuesday, 28 December 2010
After coffee and breakfast we packed up and made our way over to Koingnaas were we refuelled.
The Jimny ascended the Wildeperdehoek Pass equably. At the summit we turned left onto the bumpy Lower Buffelsrivier 4wd-trail.
It was a beautiful drive through dozens of tiny subsistence farms, occasionally offering great views over the surrounding Kammagas Mountains and Buffels River valley.
The trail itself was easily negotiable with just the last two or three kilometres consisting of a steep descent from the top of Biesiesberg. I engaged low-range and allowed the engine to arrest our speed as we lurched down the rocks.
The village of Buffelsrivier seemed quiet and relaxed. People were sitting in the shade talking and playing cards.

Wildeperdehoek Pass (Roughly translates as: Wild Horses Corner Pass)

Nama farm. Subsistence farming is traditional and popular in the area

Graffiti'd house in the village of Buffelsrivier

Card players sitting in the shade

Nama girls

Leaving the village behind, we made our way to the larger town of Komaggas. We stopped by a shop to buy Miri some sweets as a treat. Inside the store were several containers carrying all types of candy. Some I had not seen since my own childhood.
Jelly spiders with beady red eyes, marshmallow mice with black tails, sugar apricots with glossy orange cheeks, geometric wine gums, nickerballs of various densities and degrees of burn.
After waving goodbye to the children on the shop stoep we drove to Kleinsee. From there all that remained was the awful stretch to Port Nolloth. The badly corrugated road joggled the Jimny, making it sway and shimmy when I wasn’t giving its steering wheel my full attention. Miri complained bitterly as her toys bounced off her lap and once secure luggage encroached on her personal space. We were all glad when we finally bestrode the smooth tar roads of “The Port”.
That night we stayed at the Namaqua Experience Guest Lodge. It sounded exciting but in reality it was little more than a few gaily painted out-buildings and a communal TV/pool room. But it was good enough and a welcome sight after a long day.

The shop that sells all those lovely sweets. The name translates as: Help One-another

The Mission at Port Nolloth

Day 4 Wednesday, 29 December 2010
We wasted no time in getting going.
We drove the mind-numbingly straight tar road up the coast. A singular highlight was the Martian-red lichen fields midway between The Port and Alex.
The jewel of the upper West Coast was a bit run down since its glory days. Wooden fences and doorways in Alexander Bay were sun bleached and scoured bare by desert sand. Garage doors hung askew, revealing glimpses of rusting vehicles inside.
We drove deeper into the Sperrgebiet to the Orange River estuary where conservationists were laboriously erecting net screens in the damaged wetland in an attempt to resuscitate nature.

We left Alex and drove along the Orange to the mining town of Baken which looked markedly better and sported emerald green lawns amidst the glaringly pale and lifeless desert. Almost every house had a large metal mushroom sprouting from its roof. We supposed that they were industrial strength air conditioners.
Our next stop was Sendelingsdrift where we filled up with petrol one last time in 2010. We would be testing the frugality of the Jimny’s 40 litre fuel tank for the next two days. As backup we also filled a 10 litre jerrycan.

The road out of Baken

Wondergat (wonder hole) is a very, very deep hole. It was once thought to be practically bottomless but spelunkers have since fully explored it

The car ferry (or Pont) at Sendelingsdrif takes one over the Orange River to Namibia. The name 'Orange' is not for the colour of the water but rather in honour of the Prince of Orange, a Dutch Royal

After obtaining our permit we entered the Ai-Ais Richtersveld Transfrontier Park and headed up to Potjiespram, our campsite for the night.
Potjiespram was wonderful. Although it didn’t have any lawns, it had plenty trees and basic ablutions. Cleaners only visited once a week so the condition of the campsite was entirely up to the visitors, which was quite acceptable.

Miri running around inside the air-conditioned Parks offices

Inside the Richtersveld Transfrontier Park

The Bonsai

The Portal to Potjiespram. Potjiespram translates as: Pot-shaped breast, but the true meaning and pronunciation may be lost in antiquity

Our camp site

Rabobi. The Tswana name for Spiderman

Spotted Genet. This one had a missing leg so we named it Tripod

Day 5 Thursday, 30 December 2010
A short driving day lay ahead of us so we took our time cooking breakfast and enjoying coffee. Despite our vigilance a vervet monkey swooped out of nowhere and stole a bag of cookies much to Miri’s surprise. After another carefree swim in the river we packed up the last of our things and set off towards De Hoop camp.
Closer to De Hoop we encountered an extraordinary dolomite kloof where water literally sprung from the rocks. We stopped so that Miri could have a splash.

Vervet Monkey. No photoshop, their balls really are that blue!

Miri's nest in the back

Driving lessons. Never too young to start

Hand of God. A natural rock feature that resembles a hand print

Look at this one! Miri and I study tiny desert insects crawling and scurrying around the succulent mesems. What the Richtersveld lacks in big game, it more than makes up for in unusual insects and plants

A spring

There were a lot of campers at De Hoop. After our quiet drive it was something of a surprise to see so many people huddled together in the middle of nowhere. It looked welcoming and pleasant.
We didn’t linger because I wanted to drive the river route down to Tatasberg despite a park ranger’s cautious warnings that our vehicle wasn’t suited for that trail.
My biggest failing regarding our Jimny is my overreaction when someone tells me it isn’t a “real” 4x4. I get like Marty McFly in the Back to the Future movies when Biff the bully calls him “chicken”.
I just had to prove him wrong.

My wife wasn’t happy about my cavalier attitude but held her peace, allowing me to have my little “man moment”.
The Jimny conquered the sandy riverbed without a hitch, justifying my views of our little car... but no one was around to witness it.
More responsible males took the easier Route 7 through Maer Poort and avoided the sand altogether.
When we arrived at Tatasberg we were greeted by an aged but kindly caretaker.
The accommodations were excellent, well constructed and well equipped. We wanted for nothing. Clean bedding, cutlery, electricity, refrigeration, hot/cold water and a magnificent view over the river. Okay I confess that the cold tap actually produced warm water and the hot tap was best left alone. Our only real complaint involved a single, lone cube in the ice tray. Who one cube behind?!
Arriving early meant that we could spend the whole day lying about, reading and swimming. Another group arrived later in the afternoon. Their New Toyota Hilux 4x4 had taken the same river route as we had earlier in the day. Unfortunately they came away with a heavily damaged front bumper.

Our hut at Tatasberg

Cooling off in the river

Bath time

Day 6 Friday, 31 December 2010
I woke everyone early because I knew we had a long day ahead of us. It wasn’t the kilometres which bothered me but the route I had planned. I had no clear information on the condition of the trails but suspected it might be tough.
As we readied to depart we noticed that the river looked different. It was substantially broader. The grassy banks and rocky islands where we swam the previous day were all submerged. Somewhere upstream a lot of water was being released into the river. It was around this time that we learnt that the Vaal dam was at 104% and still releasing water a week after it had first opened its sluices. At the time it was just a mild curiosity and we didn’t see how it could impact on our continuing travels.
Leaving the park via Hells Pass was a real treat. Quiver trees were magnificently silhouetted on the ridges.
The fields of unique red aloes (Aloe pearsonii) near Paradysberg were even more impressive. There, in that one part of the park, was the only place on earth where they grew naturally. Miri turned out to be quite adept at spotting flora. She would call out by name every distant quiver tree or large aloe that she spotted first. Occasionally she insisted that she saw a jacaranda or agapanthus as well.

This picture was chosen for the cover for DriveOut magazine. Very pleased about that

And this picture won a photography competition in SA4x4 Magazine. Proud about that too!

Aloe

Red Aloe

Departing from the park, we drove to the town of Kuboes where our first 4x4 trail of the day was to begin. Looking back on it now I freely admit that I bit off way more than I should have. Although the Jimny was more than equal to the trail, I was asking a bit much of my family.

My long-suffering wife wasn’t happy with the route we were taking. She was convinced by the 20year-old general survey map in her hands that we were heading for a cul-de-sac in some kloof.
I neglected to mention to her that my GPS had a route programmed on it that would safely lead us through the mountains.
At first I didn’t think much of this “offroad” route. It was very pretty but hardly more than a rough jeeptrack. A few kilometres after Whale Rock things livened up a bit though. The climb up the mountain was steep as heck.
There were rocky terraces that really tested the Jimny and I desperately wished for diff lockers as the tyres battled to find purchase on the sharp slate steps.
The mountains we climbed were enormous. The views from their backs were breathtaking. We climbed up and down along rocky paths for hours. Every time I thought we were nearing the end of the trail another track would appear in the distance leading even higher up the mountain range. Progress was very slow. Our position according to the GPS didn’t look right and the predicted ETA at our destination seemed like a spurious lie.
Some of the sections were so rough we were grateful of the seatbelts holding us down. Miri was a little annoyed with the shaking and implored me to provide a smooth ride. Zanie was having the toughest time of all. She had broken her neck six months ago in a serious car accident and had extensive surgery to fuse the shattered vertebrae. All this shaking was putting stress on her still-weakened neck muscles.

Ascending the Kuboes 4x4 trail

Scenic scrambles. The views over the Stinkfontein Mountains near Kuboes are just as great as the 3G cell phone signal at the top, so you can order pizza!

Heartbreak Hill. The Kuboes 4x4 Trail is deceptively steep and rock strewn. The track undulates up and down the rolling mountains, Great care should be taken not to damage your vehicle

The track finally descended down into the narrow Kookrivier gorge. The rocky ravine made for slow going but had stunningly sheer faces on either side. My gaze lingered too long on one such feature and I failed to notice a mother of a boulder right in front of us. With a tremendous bang the Jimny came to an abrupt halt. I was certain that I had broken something.
Crawling under the Jimny I noticed that the front axle was hung up on the rock and the rear wheels didn’t have adequate traction on the talus. So I jacked up the front axle and placed rocks under the tyres. We carefully drove off the rock and picked a better line past it.

High and dry. With an almighty bang the Jimny ran aground on a large rock in the Kookrivier Gorge, all because I didn't pay attention to the track ahead

The sun was already setting when we reached Eksteensfontein. Zanie suggested we consider a stealthcamp somewhere since we had everything we needed to keep us through the night. But I was adamant that we get to Bushwacked River Camp near Vioolsdrift where we had booked a spot. I suspect I may have had a bad case of target fixation.
I don’t rightly recall why I was being so pig headed, I’m not normally that bad. It certainly is never a good idea to go 4x4ing at night and yet I pushed on. In the dark I failed to find the correct turnoff to the road that leads to Kotzeshoop via Hellskloof Pass. In the confusion I bungled onto Rooiberg road.

Pitch Black

My wife grew despondent when it became clear that we were on yet another 4x4 trail. At least this one was substantially easier than the one outside Kuboes. All went well and we were making good time over private land until we came across the Orange River. The Rooiberg 4x4 trail apparently ended here. I wanted to push through, even if it meant going off-road.
We were just 15km away from our destination and there appeared to be faint vehicle tracks in the soft river bank. So off we went.

It was after 21h00 and we only had 14km to go to Bushwacked where the mother of all New Years parties awaited. Live music, cold beer, camp fires!
But it wasn’t long until the track disappeared. I tried my best to straddle low rocks and pick the best line through large boulders poking out of the soft sand. All the while I could sense the raging river a metre or two to our left.
We hopped one rocky ledge and practically fell over the other side.
Our vehicle was trapped in a circle of boulders, some almost monolithic. There was no way forward, we had to get out the way we “fell” in and find another way through the rocks. Fortunately the Jimny has a very tight turning circle and I managed to point it back the way we came in with just a few quick manoeuvres. But the turning had churned up the powdery, soft sand and the car was now buried up to its axles.
Ordinarily this would not be a problem as I could just rock my way out and speed away with the littlest momentum. Unfortunately I didn’t have room to use these tricks. The ledge in front of me was also too high to safely traverse even if I had run-up space.
By this time Miri had woken up again and was all groggy and confused. Mom and Dad were running around in the dark trying to find loose rocks to build a ramp before the river rose any higher. By now the water’s edge was just a metre away. The flood was clearly rising, albeit slowly. That damned Johnny Cash song got stuck in my head, the chorus looping over and over:

How high's the water, mama? Two feet high and risin'
How high's the water, papa? Two feet high and risin'
We can make it to the road in a homemade boat. That's the only thing we got left that'll float. It's already over all the wheat and the oats, Two feet high and risin'

We made time to console Miri and even managed to get her engrossed in what we were doing. She couldn’t be allowed to leave the vehicle because there were numerous scorpions crawling about the rocks. She held up very well for a small child which made me feel more than a little guilty for getting her into this mess.
When the construction was done I ran the winch cable out to a large boulder a few metres away. I began the recovery process and everything went well until a loud crack echoed over the whine of the winch and the roar of the engine.
The rock which I had looped the cable around had cracked in half.
We picked up heavy shards of freshly splintered rock and threw that on our “ramp” as well. I looped the cable around a bigger and sturdier rock and braced for the second attempt.
The winch strained and Zanie swore she saw sparks flying out of the motor, but together with grinding wheels we got the Jimny out of that hellish trap. Looking back I would gladly exchange every photo we took of the trip for just 10minutes of video footage of this event.
Once we discovered a better line through the rocks things went well. I drove more cautiously, taking time to consider every variable before climbing over a rock. It would have been far less daunting in daylight but at night it was horrible with the headlights spending half the time lighting up the sky instead of illuminating the ground. The Tracks4Africa GPS map flashed a warning: ‘Not Recommended’ and ‘Extreme rock drive’. I panicked for a moment but soon realised it was warning us about the section we had just come through.
We arrived at Bushwacked just before 23h00. The party was in full swing. We were knackered and filthy with dust.
The festivities went on late into the morning but we didn’t care. As tired as we were, we were also glad to have made it.

Day 7 Saturday, 1 January 2011
The next morning Zanie, Miri and I walked over to the river. This was our fourth visit to Bushwacked and we were shocked at how high the flood had risen. The bar area was just a metre or two above the waterline. Normally there is a grassy terrace with a little beach well below that. Now there was just an ominous mass of rushing brown water.
All the 4x4ing had drained the Jimny dry of fuel and I had no way of reaching Steinkopf as planned. So I smooth talked the border guards into allowing me to sneak over to Noordoewer, Namibia, unregistered.
We were meant to spend another two days on the road visiting Pella, Boesmanland, the Knersvlakte and the Cederberg Conservancy but we decided not to. Miri was a trooper and never complained, enjoying every minute of the trip but we felt that we had put her through enough adventure for now. We would return to complete the trip at another time.

The Beach below the bar is gone

The Bar at Bushwacked

On the road again...

*A few days after we were there the river completely burst its banks. Much of our vacation would have had to be cancelled had we left a week later. And if our Jimny was not recovered that same night, it most certainly would have been swept away by the following day.

I want to go too!
How far did you travel? 2080km
How long did it take? 7 days
What was your top speed? 118km/h
What was your slowest average speed, and where? About 5km/h on the Kuboes 4WD-trail and the Rooiberg 4WD-trail
How long were you on the road? A total of 61 hours and 26 minutes – that’s an average of 8hours every day including stops.
4x4 or 4x2? Definitely 4x4. A 4x2 with good ground clearance could do most of the route but I would not take it on all the tracks we went.
What was your tyre pressure? I deflated them outside Koekenaap to 0,8 bar all round. It seems to be the perfect pressure for the Jimny as I don’t have to worry about tyres climbing off the alloy wheels. It also makes the best of corrugated roads.
Wasn’t the Jimny too small for such a holiday? No, it was perfect. We were forced to leave unnecessary nonsense behind.
How much did the trip cost? Acommodation R1 700, fuel R2 000, food R1 800 = Total R5 500
Average fuel consumption? 10.5km/litre, which isn’t bad considering how much time we spent in 4WD-Hi and Low Range.
Highlights? We each had our own personal highlights. Mine was perhaps the driving and the camping at Potjiespram.
And regrets? Driving that riverbank at night on New Year’s Eve.
Do you think your child was perhaps too young to go on such a trip? No. Voortrekkers gave birth on their treks and we were in a controlled environment with acceptable risks and no diseases. We wanted to expose her to these kind of experiences so that she will gladly go with us on other adventures.

This story was published in the May 2011 issue of Drive Out magazine. It got eight pages plus the cover of which I am very proud. I also submitted a pic to SA4x4 and Overlanding magazine which won a prize in the April 2011 issue: A Frontrunner Roofrack valued at R6,000. Brilliant!

National Braai day... in the Tankwa Karoo

2010-09-27T13:30:00.004+02:00

25 - 26 September 2010

On Friday morning we set off in no particular direction. We had packed some provisions, clothing and basic camping kit but no destination. All we knew was that we wanted to braai (Barbecue) somewhere other than at home.

So we headed toward the Boland and I suggested we get some wine for the evening from the farm Doolhof near Wellington.
Wine bought, we headed up their 4x4 trail and joined Bainskloof Pass. Once there I suggested a quick detour through the plantation to show my wife where I sometimes come with my bike for some 'sight-seeing'

The fire trails are rough and a regular sedan has no chance to get up here (unless it's an Avis rental).
We stopped frequently to show the little one interesting things and to snack on padkos.

My wife is a botanist and here she shows our daughter the difference between moss and lichen.

The fire trails aren't particularly hard but a small vehicle like the Jimny helps because some of the turns are pretty tight and it saves you from having to make three-point turns.

4H does it for most of the pass. Two-wheel drive causes the wheels to spin on the loose surface

Groenberg in the immediate background. Rumour has it that Groenberg is an ancient, extinct volcano and that a small caldera is still visible at the top. I don't know if it is true. It seems unlikely in the tranquil Boland.
In the distant background is Paardeberg and the start of the Swartland.

Now and then you have to step out of the vehicle to roll small boulders out of the way.

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In the distance; Paarl Mountain and its town at its feet

Some paths are overgrown and branches will scratch the sides of your car so just close your eyes and accept it.

Occasionally we happened on a fallen tree. There was no alternative other than driving around it.
I guess I could have winched it out of the way but avoiding the obstacle altogether was easier and safer.

No axle twisters but some nice rocky sections that will lift a wheel here and there.

Rarely did I need to engage 4L, it was only to avoid relying on the clutch for the descent.

But enough playing. We were starting to salivate over the thought of a braai and we still had no idea where we would spend the night. So we set off to Ceres to consider our options and have a light lunch.

My wife suggested we head off to the Karoo and find a place with an expansive vista.

Alarm! I forgot to fill up the tank in Ceres. It was already below the halfway mark when we left home and there was no way we could reach bigger towns like Calvinia and Sutherland, the co-op at Op-Die-Berg was closed for the long weekend. We either had to turn around and go back to ceres (which would be a real shame) or we could head up the Swartruggens Road and get some fuel from the Kagga Kamma Nature Reserve.

The latter made most sense

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Unleaded at R12.50 per litre was horrific but at least we didn't drive a diesel with the punishing price tag of R15.00 per litre.
Fuel was pumped out of barrels into buckets, and them pumped into the Jimny. It was a laborious process that took ages.

My daughter found a playmate to while the time with

A next Errol Tobias?

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The Swartruggens rift is the transition or barrier between the Karoo and the Cederberg biomes.

It has the typical rock formations of the Cederberg but just a kilometre or two away, the Restios gave way to Soutbos and other flora of the Karoo.

There are lots of little paths if you slow down and look out for them

We eventually found our spot for the night. An old trapkraal near the Swartruggens Road, not too far from Katbakkies Pass.

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We quickly pitched our tent and started a fire before the last of the daylight left us.

It was chilly so we huddles in front of the fire watching embers falling between our feet. As usual my daughter was mesmerized by the fire and would not take her eyes off it. We battled to get her to bed and eventually allowed her to fall asleep on our laps in front of the fire.

The moon arose late but in spectacular fashion. I set the shutter speed on 30seconds and painted the outside of the trapkraal store with light from my headlamp while the fire lit the inside of the store in a beautiful red glow. The light from my iPod playing soft country oldies added a hint of blue.

After putting the little one to bed, my wife and I sat up until the wee morning hours, drinking wine, listening to music and talking about all sorts of things.

The next morning:

It was a cold night despite the cloud cover. The three of us had to sleep close together to share our warmth.
"Hoe koud is die windjie en skraal"

But now it was time to pack up. We didn't have a lot to pack and were done in no time at all.

But first some play time for Miri

We allow her much, thinking it is better that she learn through exploration rather than us telling her what can and what cannot be done.
We obviously keep a close eye on her, in case she steps on a snake or falls off a dangerously high rock. I little scrape here and there won't do permanent damage though, so we allow it to happen.

Soon we headed down into the Cederberg valley and stopped briefly at Boplaas, the home of famed South African poet Boerneef.

"Hoe koud is die windjie en skraal, en blink in die doflig en kaal. So wyd as die Heer se Genade. Lê die velde in sterlig en skade" Winternag may have been written by Eugene Marais but I think Boerneef must have understood the words even better than Marais, living in this bitterly cold valley.

There are a myriad of farm roads criss-crossing the valley near Op-die-Berg.

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Miri admired the swallows nests hanging from the Weeping Willow. My wife and I were tempted to harvest some of the Waterblometjies growing wild in the slow flowing Houdenbeks River, but we didn't for fear of the Boer shooting at us with his double barrel.

I love my Jimny. It's small and slow but it's perfect for our lifestyle and philosophy.

On our return journey we took a quick detour through the Groot Winterhoek Valley before descending Gydo Pass.

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Thank you
My name is LuckyStriker and short trips can be almost as much fun as Epic Journeys.

Trekoskraal in our Jimny

2010-09-13T12:39:00.024+02:00

11 - 12 September 2010
Brief musings and pics

So this weekend the wife, the kid and I went to St'Helena Bay for some R&R.
Here are a couple of pictures of our Saturday Afternoon Drive.

My wife teaching our girl about nature

This sandy trail is at Duiker Eiland near Britania Bay

My daughter loves our little Jimny. I like to save money on vehicles so that I can spend the cash on what's REALLY important; things like holidays.

A trail between Britania Bay and Paternoster

Poser! Showing off my newly installed winch

Why a winch on a Jimny you ask? Surely they can't get stuck.
My family and I don't like to travel with groups. Consequently we need to be able to save ourselves when we get in a pickle.

Playing on the beach. We didn't actually ride on the beach proper because it is illegal and irresponsible. There... I said it

Stocking up on pickled calamari and curried mussels.

Little sandy trails to Trekoskraal. Fortunately the Jimny is narrow enough not to get scratched by the bushes and branches. It also turns on a dime so we could even ride quad-bike tracks if we wanted to.

Flowers were out

Looks a little like Ireland, but nicer

Trekoskraal

The wide angle lens flattens the landscape. Believe me when I say this dune is deceptively tall. It needed 4-Low, second gear.

Nice little trails through the dunes

By now the sand was getting a bit thick and it was time to let some air out of the tyres. 2Bar was slicing through the sand rather than gliding on top of it.

I dropped my family off in the shade with some snacks. The little one wanted to play in the sand rather than ride around the whole day.
Dad also wanted to play in the sand!

And then it was time to get serious again as we headed off toward the sea shore to find a secluded beach.

Chicken-mayo sandwiches and a light beer. Damn it's tough in Africa!!

We emerged from the dunes outside Jacobsbaai and came across some girls playing in the bay. Our daughter wanted to join them but she is still to little.

Shelly Point lighthouse

Winding down the day as the sun sets.

After putting our daughter to bed we watched the crescent moon with its back toward Venus.

A great day in a great little car.
My name is LuckyStriker and I am lucky to live in such a wonderful country.

BMW G650 X-challenge

2009-04-17T10:42:00.022+02:00

It looks like an overweight enduro bike, skinny though it may be. And it IS a little on the heavy side for such things.
So what is it? Is it a tourer? Not on your life, but it CAN tour.

Sales figures of the X-challenge in South Africa have been less than galactic. I guess we antipodeans just didn’t know what to make of the bike.
But most of those who were sufficiently intrigued to buy one sing muted praises. Only a few of us owners are completely satisfied with the bike because, let’s face it, it is not one bike for all men.

It has a terribly small 10liter fuel tank, delivering 260km in laboratory conditions but realistically only about 200km in real life conditions. In Africa where distances between fuel stops can be vast, this can be a problem. Australian owners can probably forget about ever attempting the Outback on an X.

The Air suspension is a contentious issue. Some love it, most hate it. Chiefly amongst the drawbacks is the tendency to leak air. Park your bike up for two weeks and you will likely discover that your suspension mysteriously softened.
The damping and compression is also not consistent. Warm and cold air behave differently and you will notice the difference between heading out in the morning and playing during the afternoon.
And to add insult to injury, the shock is incorrectly fitted by the factory. The roost deflector rubs against the rubber shock ‘bag’, eventually causing it to explosively decompress, not good.
On a positive note; the suspension is rather good at absorbing bumps and thumps. With the suspension set up correctly you can make some amazing jumps that would kill other Dual Sport bikes in the class.

The seat is not butt friendly. This I know because my ass blisters tell me so. The German designers must not have intended for it to be used at all, because it sucks. There are Motocross bikes with better seats. My record distance in the saddle (at the time of writing) was about 600km, spread over ten hours. Although I didn’t die, my posterior wouldn’t speak to me for days (no big loss, it has limited verbal skills anyway).

But allow me some positives before I run the bike down too much.

The construction is SOLID. I wish all bikes could be made like this. The materials used are above par.
No signs of rust even after leaving the bike mud caked for weeks. The plastics are thick, well moulded and strong. Panels line up perfectly and decals are tasteful but a little too understated.
It really is a well made machine.

Speaking of well made machines; that engine is a darling. It lacks the KTM 640’s brutal power but it is still great. It was inherited from the F650GS but it suffers none of that bike’s drawbacks yet boasts all of its graces.
This incarnation feels much, much more lively. It is smoother, spins up faster, makes more horses and can power more toasters. And yet it doesn’t compromise on endurance, being a very dependable power plant.

The handling was quite scary at first. After around 130km/h the front wheel started to go all weird. It would shimmy and wobble and I would wet my pants little by little. Fearing a tank slapper I would either tap down or lean back and relax. Either would do the trick. Sometimes pushing against the bar would also work but the fact remains that the bike was unstable at speed, made much worse if the road was bad or the wind howling.
Eventually by pure chance I got the suspension set up perfectly. There is a sweet spot in the adjustments, dependant on the rider, where the bike just starts to work perfectly.
Now I frequently push the bike up to 150km/h and the wobbling has not plagued me again.

Another improvement over the F650GS is the lighthouse bulb installed as a headlight. Brilliant...

The instruments are Spartan but modern. I would have liked a rev counter but BMW decided that I should ride the bike by ear. That would have been fine if they installed a muffler that would actually allow sound through.
Pressing the ‘mode’ button brings up the following information: Odometer, Trip 1, Trip 2, Time, Battery charge and Distance elapsed since low fuel warning.
The assortment of pilot lights encircling the digital screen gives the rest of the idiot info.
There are reports of instrument cluster failures. It is true. My own clocks are being replaced under warranty as we speak. The ‘high beam’ pilot light winks on and off after each trip through the car wash.
Other owners have complaints of weird digital displays and condensation behind the glass.

My ABS sensor broke (my fault) early on so I am unable to comment on the efficiency of the system. The cost of repair is not horrendous but I can’t be bothered to do so. So far I have not missed the ABS at all. Why just the other day I performed an emergency stop on tar. The front shocks compressed hard but the calliper did not lock up. The single front disc didn’t provide enough stop so I had to step on the rear brake as well. That one locked up quite quickly and the wheel dragged and fishtailed a bit but released immediately when I eased off the pedal. No danger, no fuss.
...and I made the stop, which is always a relief!

But now we come to the fun part. Bling. Farkles. Accessories. Call them what you will.
I will explain why I installed the various items as I go along.

Hyde Developments frame, swingarm and engine protectors.
Little or no explanation is needed. I wish to keep my bike looking good. Despite my claims that “This is the Bike that I’m going to keep forever”, history has shown that I rarely keep a bike for more than a year or two. I’d like to preserve the bike for the next owner. Not only for pride’s sake but also financial reasons.

The OEM aluminium bash plate is still there but now covered by this tough plastic protector. The prone sump plug is also spared injury by the double thick engine protector.

BMW hand protectors
These OEM parts look nice and I got them at cost so why not. There are no doubt better hand guards out there but these fit 100% and suit the bike’s look.

Kappa wind shield (Kappa 245A Universal Screen)

Amazingly enough, this little piece of polycarbonate has an enormous benefit. It is angled just right to deflect the wind over my head. There is no cavitation behind the screen so none of those insane head shakes (did anyone else see the movie Jacob’s Ladder?).
Even after long and hard rides my shoulders and neck feels completely relaxed.
Before you ask; Yes, I did experiment to see if the screen caused the front wheel wobbles. No, removing it had no effect. The cause could only be attributed to suspension setup.

Tool tube

I like to play far away from home. In the event that I break something I need to be self sufficient. BMW-on-call promised to come get me if I get stuck but I prefer to sort out my own problems.
The tube contains cable ties, Pratley Steel epoxy, various spanners, two short tyre levers, a shifting spanner, a leatherman, a few sockets and ratchet wrench, all of this wrapped in a cloth.
It is amazing what you can stuff in there.
The tube itself is made from an aluminium slip on exhaust for a car. One of those pimp-mobile Fast-and-Furious jobs.
Two plastic ferrules cap it off and bolts with wing nuts and split washers secure it.

Hidey-hole

I made this little trap door to house either one standard front wheel tube or two pairs of tie down straps.
It works brilliantly as longs as that bolt stays in. If that door opens and pokes into my wheel there may be trouble...

Handlebar risers

Being an ABS equipped model, the lines limit the height to which you can lift the bars. After much tinkering and adjusting I found that 24mm is just about the safe maximum. I would have liked an extra 10mm but Cest la vie.

Extra power outlet
The bike already has a Hella type socket below the seat next to the Air shock. But as you well know 12v appliances are rarely made to fit those sockets. An adapted was one answer but I decided to add this large diameter (cigarette lighter type) socket as well. Now I can power my cell phone or GPS straight off the bike battery.

Tübliss Core & slime in the rear

More information can be obtained from their website. Suffice it for me to say that I prefer tubeless tyres to tubed.
Neutech does not make a core for my size rear wheel yet, so I am forced to use slime in the 6mm heavy duty tube.
No punctures so far, touch wood.

Scorch Designs exhaust

That enormous WWII torpedo had to go. Fitted instead is this slim and light pipe made by my good friends at Scorch Designs.
It’s louder as can be expected but it is still not too loud. At idle it does not upset the neighbours not the gate keeper at the Game Reserve, but when I open up the tap...oh dear lord what a sound.
I’m nursing a semi just thinking about it.

Mascot

My baby girl donated her tiny puppy. I will return it to her when I sell my bike. Whether I will wash the mud of it is still being considered. Hopefully some of the dirt will rub of on her and she will grow up to love bikes just like her old man.

Other items

I fitted a large tyre lever to the frame. The holes were already there so I thought; why not?
I have a carrier rack but the darn thing keeps on breaking. The back end of the bike is rather vibey so the bolts keep coming out. When I glue them down they sheer off. Either I start working on an alternative design or I start taking it easy on whoopsies when I have luggage on the back.

The rear tyre needs to be replaced. I have a little problem with traction and will probably invest in a more aggressive pattern soon.
Pillion foot pegs- I have ‘em. Can’t use ‘em though because the rear part of the seat is not made for humans and certainly not the female variety.
I plan to fit two-finger levers. They will replace the standard gear and clutch levers and give the bike and better feel. Who uses four digits to pull a lever anyway!?

Final thoughts:
Yes I love this bike. No it’s not perfect. But with all my modifications it is pretty close. All I need is an Air-Hawk seat and I’m good to go the distance.
Once I have sorted out a better luggage system for both my saddlebags and duffel, I will have a killer DS bike.
Fuel capacity is less of a problem than you think. On all my trips, however remote, I have not suffered the long walk to the pumps.
When the route takes me into really remote parts I will just tie down a 10liter plastic jerry can or one of those 8liter collapsible fuel bags.

I wish this bike sold more units and didn’t sit in the shadows like it does. It deserves more fans.
I intend to enter an Enduro race one of these days. It will be fun to ride to the venue, sign up, race, complete and ride home. All on the same bike! Awesome!

KKNK 2009

2009-04-15T14:56:00.011+02:00

Under construction.

Text to be added later. Enjoy the pics in the mean time

Du Toitskloof Pass

Hex River Pass

Burgers Pass

Ouberg Pass

Ouberg Pass

Avondrust road

Anysberg Nature Reserve

Anysberg Nature Reserve

Anysberg Nature Reserve

Anysberg Nature Reserve

Rooinek Pass

Floriskraal Dam

Entrance to Swartberg Pass

Swartberg Pass

Swartberg Pass

Swartberg Pass

Oudtshoorn

Amalia & Christo

Henk

Christof & Alan

Me

Stealth camping in Bainskloof

2009-02-01T10:43:00.002+02:00

Since getting the X-Challenge I have not had much time to ride. Before this weekend it merely decorated my garage, occasionally undertaking the epic voyage to Kriges on Friday afternoons.
So this past weekend I decided to take it on a shakedown trip. It was going to be a quick 500km roundabout with lots of dirt and mountain passes, specifically Bain’s kloof Pass.

I hear it being said on the Wild Dog forum that the X-Challenge is not a Dual Sport bike so I leave with some trepidation.
According to the Nay Sayers I won’t make it to the next town because the tank is too small. Or I won’t make it because my head will blow off in the wind. Or my posterior will become so enflamed my pants will catch fire!
This trip was designed as a little test of those assertions.

I leave home at 08h00 with less than 300km on the odometer. All the riding thus far was focused on breaking in the engine: low to high revs and lots of gear shifting.
The long, fast road to Wellington is new to the bike but it runs brilliantly. The Kappa screen I got from topbox works and looks great. I cruise along at 130km/h without fearing decapitation.

I climb Bain’s Kloof pass to the old Mondi pine plantations. At the entrance I take moments to read the ‘No Entry’ sign before scuttling up the washed out track.

The trails are great and I occasionally have to ford small streams and hop logs. The bike’s fantastic ground clearance makes short work of it. The suspension soundlessly soaks up the impacts. The only sounds I hear are the growling exhaust note and my own “Oomphs” and “uuhns” as I bounce over obstacles.

The views over the plantation and the town of Wellington are quite spectacular. The gradients of the trails are mostly gentle but occasionally steep.

The Hawequas mountains

I ride various tweespoor tracks to find a good camping spot for the coming evening. Some of the tracks are overgrown and I have to elbow my way through sapling trees and bushes.

The Metzeller Saharas are not ideal for this type of terrain. They occasionaly had difficulty gripping the rocky surfaces. It wasn’t really a problem though. I was just being fastidious about not leaving any spin marks behind. I didn’t want a forest ranger to discover the damages and call me a vandal.

After finding what looked like a good spot to camp I headed back down the trails and continued my trek eastward along the pass.

The beautiful Bain’s Kloof pass

Doh!
The X-challenge handles brilliantly in the corners. I do believe the DR650 has quicker steering but the power to mass ratio of the X-C makes it more competitive methinks, at least against a stock-standard DR.

Dacre’s pulpit

Weekenders cooling off at Tweede Toll campgrounds.

Old bridge at Mitchell’s pass

After eating a Wimpy breakfast in Ceres I headed over Gydo pass and on to the Koue Bokkeveld. The Nay Sayers will tell you that the bike has too small a fuel tank. And yet miraculously I managed to travel from Bellville over three mountain passes (including some trail riding at one of them) at slightly over the legal speed limits for 160km before refuelling. The fuel warning light came on just outside the hamlet of Op-die-Berg, which meant I still had 2litres left.
I can therefore say with certainty that the bike will do about 200km on a tank at touring speeds with some technical diversions to break the tedium.
Ad an additional 10litre fuel container and there is probably no place you can’t go.

Sandpit next to the Rietrivier
Just before the Katbakkies pass my backside began to hurt. I managed to do over 200km before monkeybutt set in which is not bad I suppose.

As a relief from my ailing backside I decided to try out the bike in some sand. The sandpit at the foot of the Katbakkies pass is a great place to screw around.
The bike ran the dunes with ease, even with all my luggage on the back. The tyres had no grip though and I wasted a lot of the bikes power just to keep moving.
Deflating them would have helped but I didn’t want to ride around on 1bar for the rest of the day. And it was too hot to inflate the tyres again with my little hand pump.
Tyres with a more aggressive tread should sort this out though.

At the Springbokvlakte I took some time off for photos. The veldt is amazing with colourful lizards and plants half-hidden among the coral rock.

The old trapkraal ruins.
I am in two minds whether I should fit handlebar risers. You certainly don’t need to stand unless the terrain is very tough, the only other time being when your arse is burning. I am a tall guy but I found standing for a few minutes comfortable enough even without risers.
An Air-Hawk might be a good investment though.

The Perdeberg koppies along the R355 dirt highway. The geometry of the bike is well suited for dirt touring. The 21” front wheel helps to keep the bike stable at high speeds regardless of the surface. There were no nervous moments when switching ruts over the loose, accumulated sand strips

In Ceres I stopped for provisions and returned to Bain’s Kloof.

Since it was still mid afternoon I decided to do a little more exploring.
Off the pass is a 4x4 route that takes you down to a narrow valley below. It is free to use but I suspect the owners may rely on your patronage when you eventually pass by their wine cellars.

I scampered down the track towards a small dam.

At track ended at the dam so I needed to turn around. Unfortunately the road has a steep camber and my U-turn went a little wider than I hoped it would.
I trundled over some small logs until one snagged my wheel.
The bike started to topple over and I desperately tried to keep it up, to no avail.

After removing the offending piece of wood I had to untie all the luggage before I could right the bike. It was lying at a crap angle and my luggage was too heavy.
After the battle with the slope I was in desperate need of a beer. At least the bike now had its first fall and I could celebrate.

In retrospect I think I need to deflate the Air-suspension a little. 9bar is just too tall and stiff. My feet can’t simultaneously touch the ground at traffic lights and arresting a fall is nearly impossible when you have to tippy-toe off to one side.
I will experiment with lower pressure settings during the coming weeks.

And so I returned to the plantation and sought out a shaded clearing for some rest. It would be an hour or two before the worst of the midday heat was over and I could head further up the mountain to my intended camping spot.

Patiently waiting for the afternoon heat to pass

After 17h00 I loaded the bike up again. At the top I had a great view of Groenberg and Paardeberg (to the left in the distance).

The sun was now headed toward the horizon. My spot would be a narrow track that was made almost inaccessible by rockslides and fallen branches. It was the furthest up the mountain I could go with my bike and the elevation afforded me a fantastic view.

A troop of baboons barked nearby. The sentinel was calling everyone together for the approaching night. His calls sounded almost urgent and I began to wonder if he was angry at me for intruding in their territory.
I didn’t want to hassle them so I kept my activities to a minimum and rather just sat there admiring the view.

Midges were something of a problem.
I was forced to retreat to my tent so that I could eat in peace. I stayed there until the sun reached the horizon.

Sunset. Flocks of swallows took to the sky to catch one last meal of insects before turning in. Above them raptors slowly circled.

When the sun finally set and the terminator moved over the horizon, the wall of cool air leapt over the mountain.
Like a fleeting death the cold ether rushed through the trees, pine needles whistling, branches creaking in complaint. The wind seemed to chase after the fire beyond the horizon, never to catch up.

After less than an hour the gusts passed by and the forest was silent, seemingly still in shock. It took several minutes for the owls to recover and begin their hooting and whisper quiet hunting.

Next morning. It was a trying night. The ground was a little uneven and I kept on rolling off my mattress. When dawn came, so did the loud calls of the baboon troop. I wanted to shout at them to STFU since it was only 05h00, but this was their home and I guess I was just the guest.

I made my way down the still dark forestry roads.

Entrance to the plantation.

I am not posting the coordinates of the entrance. I am also not telling you where the forestry stations are. Please don’t turn this into your plastic bike race track.
Obviously I want you all to feel the same pleasures I felt up in the mountain so I will only ask you to avoid pissing off the foresters and to not pollute the environment in any way, if you decide to go.
It is illegal to enter the plantation so don’t blame me if you get caught and fined. And please don’t tell them I sent you.

But if you go, you’ll love it!

Map

Lastly, the bike:
It is almost everything I want in a DS bike. All you need is an Air-Hawk (R900 odd), a luggage carrier (R800 odd), a screen (R800 odd) and a map.

It’s a killer DS bike and what better place to use it than on tough travels as opposed to wimpy guesthouse-to-guesthouse cruises.

Swartrugpad - A very short report in 4's

2008-04-18T14:26:00.003+02:00

Over a beer on Friday evening, newguy and I decided to go to the Karoo the next day.
We met up on Saturday afternoon and headed to the Swartrug road 176km away.
After buying some food in Ceres we arrived at the camping spot below the Peerboom pass.
The weather was great so we didn't bother with tents to keep mozzies at bay.

Between us we had 4 sosaties, 4 beers and 4 litres of red wine. We polished it all.
Waking up the next day was hard and we reluctantly prepared for the next haul.
I wish I took more pictures, especially of the sand dunes below Katbakkies pass.
4pics is what you get. That is all.

Camp: S32 52 52.3 E19 44 13.9

Great African GS Challenge 2007

2007-10-17T09:53:00.003+02:00

Preparation for a GS Challenge does not start with the entry form, it starts much later.
Half an hour before you turn the key, you put on that suit. It’s a suit worth several thousand rand; A BMW suit. Boots, gloves, jacket and pants all matching.
Riders of other brands scoff, or so you hear, but you don’t care. According to you, Harley riders dress up like silly play actors, Superbikers dress like Power Rangers, but you mean business. Perhaps it’s a sweet illusion.
Owning a BMW and following the lifestyle is an expensive business and it is best appreciated through complete immersion.

The road to the Challenge is an adventure in itself, roaring across the open plains of the Karoo and over the switch-back mountain passes of the Cederberg.
When we arrived at base camp there was a buzz in the air. Five hundred and fifty odd kindred spirits congregated amongst serrated rocks and grassy fields.
We found a spot and pitched our tents, glancing up to scan for familiar faces and admire that vintage GS in classic rally regale.

I’ll not beat around the bush at this point. I did not look forward to attending such a clique event. I struggled to see why a brand specific event would be so popular. I’ve heard all the talk on the Wild Dog forums on why BMW want to have their own little exclusive party. But by the end of the weekend it became clear to me. It’s BMW’s way of rewarding and thanking their clients.
The entry fees (particularly high this year) do not cover the cost of whole event, so BMW sponsors it in part.

If I felt like complaining about something, all I had to do was look at the rows upon rows of clean mobile toilets with an unlimited supply of white gold and the large shower and wash area with uninterrupted hot water. Not only that but, if you consider that we were miles from the nearest national grid access, you really come to appreciate the generators (parked far away not to disturb the campers) that powered the field kitchens, the lights, the bar and everything else.

The first night was surprisingly constrained; everyone awaited the pre-route briefing in the enormous Bedouin tent. Deon Meyer welcomed us and spoke in his familiar easy-going manner. The Green Route, The Orange Route and the formidable Red Route; all were laid bare with the secrets hinted at using misleading photographs.
I chose the Orange Route, like a computer game player not wanting to play ‘Easy’ level, but figuring he can’t defeat the boss monster on ‘Hard’ level either.

As if choreographed, the catering staff marched into the tent with their arms around large bowls of food. We ate heartily and celebrated our arrival with wine late into the midnight hour. Most participants studied their road books diligently and went to bed quite early. I could not for the life of me figure out why, was this not a holiday?

I reached for my earplugs early on Wednesday morning; engines were burbling and the Doppler effect of bikes rumbling past confused me no end. It was still dark and my head hurt from the Rum and Tab joyously decanted by my riding mate the previous evening. The time was six o’clock. I was surrounded by crazy fools!
Nevertheless I geared up and zipped my way out of the tent. The air was chilly as the bike trundled along the sandy two-spoor track and on to Nieuwoudtville for the first fuel stop.

A long strip of powdery dust stretched out over the Hantam plains. We followed the convoy, passing riders that were either sightseeing or concerned about the loose gravel roads, and were passed by others who loved to go a little faster than was probably wise.
Quiver trees flashed past until we reached the start of the first Special Stage. The road was littered with fist sized rocks and deep wash-aways. We were riding through magnificent vistas which were diverting our attention from roaming sheep and treacherous sand. The scouts who laid out the routes really outdid themselves, the scenery was great and the roads fairly challenging.

This was the first time an ‘orange’ route was introduced. At the first challenge in 2004, there were also three routes; the Blue, the Green and the Red. The Blue route was quickly discarded because participants didn’t find it challenging at all.
A lot of GS riders are proficient enough to handle technical terrain but don’t want to risk damage to their expensive bikes. And so as participant requests filtered through, an intermediate route was brought into being.

Despite the logic behind the three routes, a lot of bikes didn’t make it through day one. The workshop, staffed by mechanics from Hamman, Donford and Atlantic Motorrad, had their hands full repairing sumps and various bits of damage.
Day one of the orange route took the participants for a 300km ride over the Doring- and Hantamsrivier, through beautiful farms where riders had to do leapfrog duty, opening and closing countless gates.

That evening I reclined on a comfortable sofa with my feet on a glass coffee table. My wife would never allow such behaviour at home. Friendly waiters kept the snack bowls coming and our glasses filled with wine. Around us gas heaters flared to keep the chill at bay. Bar girls in tiny, tight-fitting shorts endured catcalls with a smile. With a contented sigh I listened to my comrades telling hilarious tall tales which wore down the evening. It’s a tough life!
Back at the tents it was the usual ‘Good night John-boy’ ‘Good night Mary-ellen’ gag. We gave little thought about the next day and its 330km of dirt trails.

Orange day-2 took the riders via delectable farm roads, riddled with sandy patches and steep descents, over the Pakhuis Pass and into the town of Clanwilliam for lunch.
From Clanwilliam the road climbed to Algeria, Uitkyk Pass and Matjiesrivier. The Cederberg routes are incredibly beautiful and the road from Eselbank to Wuppertal is beyond description.

From there it was an easy, fast ride back to camp where we got back just in time to watch the skills challenge.

The previous day’s skills challenge saw a large number of participants whittled down to about 18 contestants. The bike categories were divided into ‘light’ (X-challenge and 650GS), ‘medium’ (1150, 1200GS and HP2) and ‘heavy’ (1150Adventure and 1200Adventure) classes.

The riders were required to cross a stream, ride up and down slopes and make tight turns all without putting their feet down. Coloured flags along the course also denoted certain ‘tricks’ that had to be preformed. For instance swinging a leg over and riding with both feet on one peg, both feet on the seat, etc, all without stopping.

Back at camp, the enormous rock towering over the tented town was specked with people trying to get a cellular signal not unlike gregarious petrels on a tiny island. Normally there would be no signal but Vodacom had set up a temporary tower for the duration of the challenge. I tried the showers for the first time and enjoyed the hot water jetting from the nozzle.
Dinner was great as usual and a short walk away the beer tent waited with those comfortable sofas and great company of newly met friends.

Orange day-3 was perhaps the most memorable of them all. After another hearty breakfast at camp and filling up at Nieuwoudtville, the group rumbled north and swung around the Bokkeveldberg and witnessed some of the most scenic landscapes on the route.

The owner of Gannabos farm was kind enough (or is that evil enough) to divert the official route up a dry riverbed. For the next one and a half kilometres chaos ruled. Bikes were buried everywhere, their riders swearing and sweating in equal measure. Those of us who had previous sand riding experience stormed through, avoiding the despondent cadavers of fallen participants. Some of us made it to solid ground without incident and walked back to help our struggling comrades.

Calvinia was the next stop. It was perfectly placed on the route. Just in time for a cold one!
We left the town reluctantly but we still had some way to go. Our persistence was rewarded by large fields dressed in gold and snow white wildflowers spread out on both sides of the track. The floral scent was wonderful, making the ride so much more special.
From the farm of Weltevrede we climbed up a sandy track to the steep Kliprug Pass, a pass surely carved from the mountain with a blunt shovel wielded by a sadistic anti-bike lobbyist.

The medical staff from Medi-Clinic stood at the top of Kliprug and spied on us with binoculars. Not a promising sign.
With the last Special Stage behind us, the ride back to camp went by quickly. Parking the bike and pulling off my boots felt rewarding and slightly saddening. Why must all good things come to an end?

We made our way to the open field hosting the third day of the skills challenge.

The final six contestants were fighting it out on a sand track. Two identical R1200GS Adventures lay on their sides in the middle of an oval track. Two riders sprinted to the bikes Suzuka-style and quickly donned helmets before starting up the bikes and racing off. Elimination came when a contestant overtook another or when someone made a critical mistake like leaving the marked course.
When the six were down to three, the rules changed. The contestants now raced counter clockwise in a time trial race. They looked spectacular and the bikes did well under their expert control.

At the final debriefing we learned of Deon Meyer’s retirement as organiser of the GS Challenge and his ambitions to become a full time author. He performed his last official duty under applause by announcing blonde surfer-boy, Roger Kane-Berman as this year’s challenge winner. Roger became the owner of a brand new 650 X-Challenge.

Various dignitaries then took centre stage; starting with the head of the Northern Cape tourism board, Owen Coetzee, who thanked the Challenge organisers for employing and training so many local people and thanking the participants for donating hundreds of books to local schools.
Lachlan Harris, general manager of BMW Motorrad South Africa, had a surprise up his sleeve (or so he thought). BMW’s newest pony in the growing stable was given a world premier and we were the first to see it; the 450 Sports Enduro. But rumours about the bike had already spread throughout the camp two days earlier; you can’t keep a bunch of enthusiasts in the dark for long.

The 450 is a fully functional concept bike that will be entered into this year’s E2 class of the World Enduro Championship to be held in Puerto Lumbreras, the south of Spain.
Two riders have been signed to ride the bike, Joel Smets and Sascha Eckert. Christian Wettach, product manager for Motorrad Germany, was kind enough to fly the bike to the Challenge and personally introduce it to us.
It was a treat to be given a first glance, but all our fears were dispelled when someone asked if it would be allowed on next year’s GS Challenge. Since it was not road legal it would not be admitted.

The last evening was typical of a final night at any motorcycle rally (although participants are sworn not to use the ‘R’ word), partying next to the huge bonfire into the early hours, the devil may care what happens the next day.

History of the GS Challenge:

The first challenge was held in 2004 at the Country Trax facility outside Amersfoort in Mpumalanga. Initially riders had a choice between two routes; Green or Red. A relatively small number of 98 participants entered.
In 2005 it moved to Loxton in the Northern Cape where the Blue route was introduced. The number of entrants had by then jumped to 380.
The third annual GS Challenge was held in the beautiful valley of Moolmanshoek, near Ficksburg in the Free State. The Blue route was discarded but the green route was seen by the average rider as too easy and the red route too difficult. The organisers decided to limit the amount of entrants to roughly 600 participants.

This year’s challenge hosted one hundred fewer participants than the previous year. It can be attributed to increased distance from Gauteng, higher costs and the disappointment some participants experience in 2006. The latter reason was mainly based on the cold mielies served for dinner, an unforgivable sin when dealing with Northerners, or so I’m told.

The original intent was to offer an adventure for GS owners all across Southern Africa. Participants would be encouraged to ride their bikes all the way from their homes and partake in a weekend of technical riding on private land where the general public are not usually allowed.
The challenge has stayed true to this spirit and riders came from as far as Windhoek with their tent and sleeping bag strapped to the back.
Participation from abroad was also noticeable in the form of European entrants.

For information about the next Great African GS Challenge, visit www.gagsc.co.za

About the venue:

Papkuisfontein Guest Farm is located 25km south of Nieuwoudtville. It is owned and managed by the Van Wyk family. It offers rock pools for swimming, canyon and waterfall, hiking trails, wild and birdlife and is situated in the unique Cape Fynbos and Succulent Karoo biomes.

Several types of quaint but comfortable accommodation are offered. There are the stone cottages of De Hoop, Gert Boom and Ronde Kraal, the country style De Lande guest house and the little Sinkhuisie with its charming character.

Visit www.papkuilsfontein.com or phone 027 218 1246 for more information.

Typical packing list:

A small tent
Sleeping bag
Mattress and pillow
Torch
Towel
Toiletries / prescription medicine
Casual clothing for evenings
A small rucksack and/or water bladder
Cash
Tyre repair kit
A Camera
A Cellular phone
GPS or tank bag with map window

You don’t need anything else but you are welcome to take along whatever luxuries you feel will complete your experience.

This article appeared in the December 2007 issue of TOPbike magazine

Kuilsriver Crusade

2007-10-15T14:00:00.002+02:00

The Kuilsriver (Laziest of the mighty Cape water features)

Possibly one of South Africa’s least impressive water arteries.
At just over 30km in length, its origin is in the hills of Durbanville. Not in the splendid vineyards but at the base of a refuse site near the sports grounds. It flows almost directly south past my neighbourhood, down and down towards the ocean but never quite reaching it.
It’s not a wide river, indeed, where it flows past my area it is only about 2 metres across. I am told much of it runs underground at this point. But on the outskirts of the town of Kuilsriver (soon to be swallowed up by the greater Cape Metropole) the river is violently expelled from the earth and it forms a stream in places over 20metres wide!

And as it passes under Stellenbosch Road, it suddenly and mysteriously dwindles back into a metre-wide sliver as it curves through the flat terrain of Blue Downs.
The unmighty Kuilsriver unceremoniously terminates in a vacant marshland between Kayalitsha and Macassar, slurped up by the rancid Eerste River.

But even such crude geological features as the Kuilsriver has something wonderful to offer. I decided to examine a tiny part of it, 2km of it to be exact. This is my story:

The Playground

The elevated R300 interchange and the N1 highway
The fields are covered by purple flowers. An invasive Australian species called Salvation Sally. Over here it is better known as Patterson’s Curse.

There are some single spoor trails but mostly you have to ride through grass lands and force your way through thickets and a small Poplar Forest.

Test your bike’s ground clearance without damaging the bash plate or frame.

Except for the Poplars and Weeping Willows there is one other invasive tree; Port Jackson. The ones along the Kuilsriver are slowly dyeing thanks to Genetic Engineering. All of them are infected by a particularly nasty fungus that distort and cripple the plants. Wood seem melted and branches thin and fragile. The fungus was created in a lab and attack only Port Jackson. The infection has limited ability and cannot travel far without human help.

We cotchar mud an everthin’…

Poplar forest

A wee crossing
The riverbed is shallow but the water smells funky.

Another crossing near the highway. I think there is a small amount of raw sewage in the water…best not to fall in it…

The Tunnel of Terror!
You can ride down it to the other side of the N1

Suzuki DR650SE

2007-09-24T09:33:00.000+02:00

1. The Tank – At 14litres, the tank won’t give you much of a range. It is fine for playing around near town but you can forget about longer trips. Consider getting a long range tank.
Decision: 30litre Aqualine Safari tank imported from Australia.

2. Carrier rack – It doesn’t have one. Either order one from Suzuki, grab one off an old DR or build your own one from scratch.
Decision: Plans to construct one with the help of a friend.

3. Chain roller – To be removed. Violent swings from the chain can rip off the roller and tear a hole in the frame. Suzuki addressed the problem by screwing the pin of the roller into the frame as opposed to welding it on. Rather err on the side of caution by removing altogether.
Decision: Removal of offending plastic spinner.

4. Silencer – It’s not called that for nothing. The bike is quiet enough to stalk kudu with. Replace the stock part with an aftermarket pipe if you want to free the decibels but prepare to sacrifice entry into national parks or farms where the owners prefer quiet.
Decision: Retain stock pipe until such time as unbearable ridicule or a free pipe.

5. Rear foot pegs – Whatever for? It’s not like you can actually lift anyone unless both rider and pillion are anorexic lovers with a fondness for bumping crotch to buttocks! Remove the pegs.
Decision: Pegs placed in cotton wool, preserved for future generations.

6. Chain guard – By removing the chain roller you increase the risk that the chain will eat the chain guard. Once it starts to receive cuts it is time to modify it. Cut away a part of it to remove the risk that it will be broken by the angry chain.
Decision: Untouched, eagerly awaiting imminent failure of part.

7. Valve – That valve is as stiff as a Malaysian boy whore. You probably will have some trouble getting the air hose in between the spokes to inflate it. If you can, consider getting a curved extender or a tube fitted with a curved valve stem.
Decision: Currently investigating alternatives.

8. Centre stand – It would have been nice if the bike had one. There are several available as aftermarket parts but you lose ground clearance. A shame.
Decision: Will make do with plastic crates, large stones, tyre levers, etc.

9. Handlebars – If you don’t crash they should be fine. If you are a short person they should be fine. If you like ugly plumbing they should be fine. Otherwise, get something decent like Pro-taper ATV Hi bars. A cinch to install and well worth the money.
Decision: Replaced with Pro-Taper ATV Hi bars – wife deliberately mispronounces the name as Pro-tappet!

10. Hand guards – Laughable. The only function the serve is to confuse airborne pollen and inconvenience flies. I highly recommend replacing them. Their tendency to flap in the wind could even cause them to be dangerous.
Decision: Replaced with Polisport guards. Still reeling from paying R420 for two pieces of plastic.

11. Headlight – Adequate but uninspiring. I plan to install evil twin headlamps which will aid me in my quest to make children cry and send little old ladies to an early grave.
Decision: Scouting for replacement lights as we speak.

12. Steering head bearings – I have been advised that Suzuki over tighten these. In some cases the head bearing is damaged due to this act of stupidity. If your steering feels heavy there is a good chance that yours will fail if you don’t have it looked at.
Decision: Mine feel fine. Do not need adjustment.

13. Side on reflectors – What’s that all about? Are we in kindergarten? What else is in the box, training wheels? Sure they add safety, but so does a flashing orange light strapped to your helmet! Remove it.
Decision: Removed. Attached to blind woman’s guide dog, saved a life.

14. Carb – These things are often outsourced to the Australian Rugby Society for Inebriants (ARSE for short) for tuning. Either they run too lean and you have to tweak the jet or the idling screw is set wrong and you have to turn up the speed.
Decision: Adjusted idling screw, engine purrs like a kitten.

15. Headers – Sweet lord the pipe gets hot! And when it gets hot the engine gets hot. After a few minutes your shins and toes start to experience a sensation know to Tibetan monks who pour petrol over themselves and strike a match. I’m getting header wraps, I don’t care if they are illegal. Either that or I’m getting ass-less chaps to protect my legs!
Decision: Searching for header wraps…chicken teeth.

16. Bash plate – Where is it? Did they forget to install it on my bike? I looked around and guess what I found: nobody else has them either. An unforgivable omission or corporate decision! Did they really need to save those couple of dollars on every bike? If they need money I’ll be happy to start a fund called “Cradle Frame Benders Anonymous” Just give the word!
Decision: Awaiting quote for bash plate. Considering alternatives like making my own.

17. Seat – Not listed in the above pic. I appear to have a heated seat installed. The seat warms up to an uncomfortable level after around 40km. After fruitlessly searching for the off switch I perused the manual but found no mention of such a device. At the time of writing I still have not discovered how the heating element works. It is getting a little annoying and I’m thinking of getting a sheep skin to isolate my butt from the burning sensation.

General impressions of the DR650SE
At first glance: 0 to 300km on the odometer.

Dear diary. I think I’m going to cry. I miss my BMW so much.
I just took a short ride to the garage to fuel up the DR. I did not like the ride and came right back home.

Dear diary. I’m still terribly upset. I think I may have wasted a lot of money on something I don’t like. One of my colleagues said today that it looks like a piskriek. I briefly considered slashing my wrists but there is still so much beer to be drunk.

Dear diary. I am slowly coming round and escaping from my depression. The little DR did okay in the sand today. I didn’t wring its neck because the engine is still new but I sense great potential.

Dear diary. This is goodbye. I won’t be writing in you again. I’ll be out riding.

Yes it’s true. I didn’t like the DR at first. As I sat at the dealer, signing the forms and getting the keys I hated the bank for approving the deal. When someone asked me if I was excited about the bike I just nodded and said: “Sure. It’s a nice bike”

But after about three days the bike started to grow on me, much sooner than I suspected. I can now honestly say that I’m a happy chappie.
The only problem with the bike is the looks of pity I get from 1litre+ bike owners. Holy crap! Was I one of those people?
I suspect they think I’m too poor or stupid (or worse; scared) to own a ‘proper’ bike. I can rant all day, citing situations where I will ride rings around their bikes but I won’t. It’s a futile exercise. I remember my own state of mind when I had a big bike. How many times did I feel pity for thumper owners. When they told me of the benefits of ‘smaller’ bikes I simply indulged them. I was such a doos.

Even magazines overlook them. Both TopBike and 2Wheels have lists in the back but no mention of the DR is given. It simply doesn’t exist. When you buy accessories and the merchant ask what bike you have they invariably say that they didn’t know Suzuki made a 650 street scrambler.
But trust me when I tell you these 650 thumpers are the perfect DS bike, the same goes for the Yamaha, Honda, Kawasaki, KTM, etc. of the same class. I won’t explain why I say so. Those who own them will understand and those who don’t will be deaf to the arguments.

I will use this thread to keep you updated on the life of my DR650SE.
I’ll report back on everything that breaks, the costs involved in pimping it up, the services and what they entail, etc.
I don’t know much about the bike and as I learn something new I’ll share it with those who bother to follow the thread.
Feel free to add any info or questions you have as well as pics and stories of your own DR.
Please don’t hijack the thread with opinions that have nothing to do with the DR650.

There, I’ve typed too much for a first post already. Be that as it may, stay tuned for more

Sand School

2007-09-07T01:25:00.002+02:00

Fat bikes on a sand riding course

Gale force winds swept down from the Wemmershoek mountains. It was nine o’ clock on a Saturday morning. Thirteen of us, twelve men and one woman, stood on a balcony anchored to precipitous rock and examined the sandy lake bed of the Brandvlei dam in the valley 2km away and below us.

The introductions and basic theory of sand riding were already behind us and our Country Trax instructors; Leon, Lourens and Toren roamed in and out of our group making sure everyone was ready (and able) to go.
All that remained was to swallow this last bit of rapidly cooling coffee and get on my bike. It was time for school!

Accompanied by incessant drizzle, two groups of eight descended the steep slopes of the mountain single file. The winding path was paved with wet cement bricks and all of us cautiously edged around the hairpin turns. No one wanted to push the knobbly tyres too far and fall his or her ass off in front of the others. I appeared to be the only one sitting down in the saddle. Even the guy on the Africa Twin stood on his pegs! I was tempted to conform to BMW doctrine and ride my bike meerkat-style but I decided to resist conversion for as long as I could.

After crossing a slightly nasty piece of sand track we assembled on the lake bed for the morning’s instruction.
The recent summer dragged back the water level, revealing pure white sands seemingly devoid of life. The kilometre wide beach was absolutely flat, interrupted only by strips of eroded ridges and devious dunes. Lazily strewn tufts of tall grass and the occasional blackened carcass of a long dead tree were the only features not obscured by a layer of windblown sand.

For the next few minutes we rode in a large circle around the instructors, first with only one hand on the bars, then with only one foot on the pegs. Things progressed steadily and before we knew it we were riding side-saddle and then changing over to kicking the can-can whilst hurtling along over the steadily shrinking circle carved into the damp sand. We must have looked ridiculous but what we didn’t know at the time was that the basic tenants for shifting your bodyweight were being imprinted on our minds. We were also shown the proper technique of fast acceleration and emergency braking in sand…but more on that later.

I have never shied away from sand even though I’m terrible at riding it, but the thought of what was to come next made me tremble, partly from fear and partly from excitement. Power-sliding!
Speed up, look up, step into the turn to tilt the bike in the direction you want to go. Immediately weigh the opposite side of the bike and swing your hips outward while you turn up the volume to number 11.
If you did it right you were rewarded by quick turns and huge sprays of sand. And if you sneaked a peek to the side you would glimpse the rear wheel coming round to see what the hell was going on up front in the control room.
Success was measured by Lourens’ eager laughter and a cheery two thumbs up.

It’s all good fun to behave like a hooligan but without technical control you are nothing but a show-off looking to get hurt. With a row of cones, each a bike and a half apart, came the slalom exercise.
Dodging cones on a bike is as old as the mountains but doing it on sand over and over again with seven other bikes grinding up the same surface is something else entirely. It soon degenerated into a graveyard of tipped over or half buried bikes. No one laughed at each other because we were all falling over like drunken pedestrians on pay day.

It was still early morning and already we were knackered. Toren entertained us with wheelies under the arch of a vivid rainbow while we took a breather and gathered our wits.
The drizzle was replaced by rain striking from the side as gusts started to pick up speed over the battleship grey surface of the dam.
With the five minute break behind us, we all rumbled off in a slow enduro chase across the lake bed; jumping over low dunes and power-sliding to avoid dead trees and trenches.

We lost the first bike due to clutch failure. The smoking 1200GS was towed out of the sand and the rider dropped out of the course with obvious disappointment.
He had made a simple mistake and it drove the morning’s instructions deeper into us. “When you let go of the clutch, let it go quickly and then forget about it!”

Despite the casualty, we left the beach with all the confidence in the world and headed over to a deep sand circuit a few kilometres away. The oval track was not even half the size of a rugby field but it was filled up with deep, loose sand contained within embankments nearly a metre high. There was only one way to go around the circuit without completely burying your bike and that was to open up and ride aggressively.
Most of us were able to do at least one lap without falling but it took a lot of concentration. The harder you worked the bike, the more likely you were to fall. Those who relaxed and trusted their bikes to do the riding, cleared the sharp turns like professionals.

Lunch time came not a moment too soon. As a cooling off exercise we rode various gradients of a mud filled quarry before making our way back to camp.
The kitchen staff really outdid themselves and the delicious meals were wolfed down by the hungry horde, still stinking of sweat and dripping water and sand on the pristine floors.
After some discussion and feedback, we were herded back out the door.

We assembled in the courtyard and fine tuned our bike suspensions, basing the settings on the feel we got during the morning ride. Damping was tweaked, preload was cranked up all the way and the tyre pressures let down lower.
Once again we descended the mountain slope to the lake bed. This time the games were over and our instructors warned us that the serious riding was about to begin.

The rain was coming down by the bucket full and the wind was incredible. We would later learn that the same wind decimated buildings in the cape and flooded whole towns, yet here we were in the middle of it, going for a ride on our bikes!

We took no prisoners and attacked a dune path through a patch of trees. I went third, my confidence way up. Going in a straight line was impossible because of the deep crests and so I had to slalom around the rises, avoiding trees as I went. One such tree lifted its arm-like branches and beckoned me closer. The wind howled a siren call in my ears and I became mesmerised with target fixation. WHACK!
It took a while to find my way out of the branches and much longer to drag the heavy 1200GS Adventure through the sand and out from under the thrashing tree.
Failure must be contagious because almost everyone after me plonked down in the wind swept dunes.

When we finally got the whole group through we rumbled onto the beach and braced ourselves against the horrendous wind.
This section of the lake bed had jutting islands of grass every few metres. You could ride over them if you had the strength to endure a million thumps but it was better to slalom your way through. We cleared the maze of obstacles and entered a dune area where the sand was blowing up a constant cloud of grit.
Now and then everyone would just stop, put out both feet and brace themselves against the tremendous wind. I lifted up my head to locate the rest of my group and could see only two or three heads suspended above the dark orange cloud streaming across the landscape. Suddenly one head disappeared. It looked exactly like a crocodile had pulled the rider under. Before I knew it I was down as well, blown over by the fierce wind.
Whenever there was a pause in the torrent, a bike would emerge from the sand and the rider rapidly trying to turn into the onslaught and on to firmer ground.

It was insane and Lourens signalled with hand gestures that it was time to get out of there. He got no argument from us.
First we had to backtrack over that dune section which by now looked like a construction site from digging up the bikes when we entered.
I went second and rode with mad determination. Suddenly that tree was in front of me again. It opened up its branches like a gaping maw to swallow me whole. This time I miraculously avoided it but got a spiteful smack against the head by one of its flailing branches.

Back we went to the sandy circuit where the wind was much better. Lourens had meanwhile dreamed up another form of torture for us.
We teamed up with partners and rode two-up around the tight track. My pillion and I did quite well and I sped down the track a good speed. It was only when I approached the first sharp turn when I realised the throttle was stuck. The lessons on emergency braking in sand came in quite handy and I killed the power while the engine was still screaming at full revs.

We cleaned sand out of the throttle bodies as best we could but Toren suspected that the controller may have dropped a cable. He was to be proven right.
The looming mountains were beginning to cast dark shadows over the valley and a bunch of wet and tired bikers made their way back up the mountain for dinner.

Across the dirt road leading to camp were speed humps created to channel water away from the road. If you throttled up and compressed the forks at just the right moment the GS would get quite a fair amount of flight time. I did this once or twice until the throttle suddenly swung open all the way again. I could not close it off. The grip was rendered useless in my hand.
Reaching for the ignition key was impossible because the accelerating bike was rocketing up the road while G-forces were pulling me backward. I held the furious bull by the horns like a rodeo cowboy with his girl cheering from the stands. The next whoopsie was struck at a fraction below mach one. When the bike came down I was still accelerating and rapidly gaining on the instructor in front of me. The kill switch had seized up from all the windblown sand and rain. It would not work.
I had to make a dreadful choice: Either ride this demon all the way to hell or end it right now before it ended in tears.
I’m not quite sure what I did but the next moment the bike and I were sliding uphill parallel to each other at no lesser speed than moments before.
Finally the grinding noise faded and the trees stopped their maddening whiz past me.

The throttle was now completely fried, stuck at 100% open. We towed the bike home…the second bike to fall victim to the sand. All the while the rain fell and the wind roared like a laughing giant.
Fortunately I suffered no injury and the bike looked fine aside from dull paint and a frosty headlight. This was due to the sandblasting we all received down in the valley.

After another delicious meal we were assembled again to discuss the night ride.
Perhaps not surprisingly, no one wanted to go anymore, no one except Eugene du Plessis. Leon and Lourens seemed equally eager and the three of them set out at half past seven. The brave act must have pleased the weather gods because the wind suddenly died down and the rain stopped. The skies cleared as if by magic and starlight rained down on the valley below.

The rest of us hunkered over the balcony railing and followed the three lights making their way down the mountain and into the trees and dunes far below.
We eased our stiff muscles with beers carefully decanted by Donovan the bartender while we awaited their return.
Hours later we cheered as they drank down their shots of Jägermeister and thrilled us with their accomplishment.
Falling asleep that night was not an easy thing for me. I kept on replaying the whole day over and over in my head. It suddenly dawned on me that I could have averted my crash if I had pulled in the clutch lever. How such a simple reaction escaped me, I will never know. When I did eventually succumb, it was a deep hibernating slumber.

The next morning introduced a gloriously sunny sky and crispy cool air. Seven of the original thirteen riders remained. Three were only booked for a day course and had left the previous afternoon. Another three had to retire due to personal or technical problems, me sadly being one of them.
After a hearty breakfast, the challenges of the day were outlined to the riders. There was to be little instruction but rather an application of what was learned the previous day.
Since I had to wait for BMW-on-Call to come collect my bike later in the afternoon, I decided to tag along with the group on four wheels courtesy of Klipbokkop Mountain Resort. My driver, PG, is a wild one and impressed his driving skills upon me at every opportunity.
He drifted the bakkie around muddy tracks that would have made the fast and the furious muddy their pants.

We followed the group and witnessed them race along incredibly sandy tracks. The 4x4 groaned around tight curves as the tyres ground up the soft sand.
Not everyone turned out to be an ace sand rider on that day. Certainly a lot of them made regular face plants, their helmets pushing up impressive waves of sand.
Some riders rose above the rest showing supernatural ability while others ‘merely’ doubled their skills and tripled their confidence.
All the bikes performed flawlessly on the second day, proving that windswept sand mixed with rain can cause havoc with technology.

I felt like a leper in a colony of healthy athletes when I saw my comrades race up and down tall dunes. They weren’t riding two-stroke scramblers, they were all on large bikes that are apparently built for touring and occasional dirt roads only.
In less than 24hours the instructors of Country Trax had transformed a couple of regular guys who all feared sand into daredevils of note.

I’m certain that none of us who did the course can claim to be newly incarnated sand gods but we all took away something valuable. The course shook us out of that comfort envelope that traps so many adventure bike owners. It was the first course of its kind to be held in South Africa and I think it will be very successful.
The bikes used this weekend were 1150GS Adventures, 1200GS’s, 1200Adventures, HP2s, an Africa Twin, a TW200 and a 650Xchallenge. I was once again shown that these big bikes are capable of so much more than generally thought.

I would like to thank Country Trax instructors; Leon Kroucamp, Lourens van Rensburg and Toren Wing for their excellent tutorage and a big thanks to the friendly staff at Klipbokkop Mountain Resort.
A special thanks goes to the guy who always mysteriously appeared alongside to help pick up my heavy bike, you know who you all were.

The course was ridden on the writer’s own motorcycle and completely paid for by TopBike.

Klipbokkop Mountain Resort is nestled in the lush green folds of the Wemmershoek mountains. The resort boasts a large conference hall with an adjacent bar and lounge area. The comfortable rooms, each with its own bathroom, have magnificent views on the Brandvlei dam and the Worcester valley. A staffed kitchen prepares excellent meals and is complimented by outside braais for those who prefer the simpler things in life.
The principle function of the resort is to host corporate functions and holidays for large tourist groups. Klipbokkop is run with a strict environmental agenda and is not open to the general public. On average only two drive-outs are permitted each month, minimising damage to the environment.
Motorcycles and 4x4 vehicles are not allowed on the maze of mountain trails except when accompanied by staff or on approved courses like the one discussed in the article.
Though not a game farm many buck and antelope can be seen along the rocky mountain trails. One may even be fortunate enough to spot a leopard. Several still roam the mountains unhindered and free.
Please visit www.klipbokkop.co.za for more information about the resort.
And for more information on the sand riding course, direct your browser to: www.countrytrax.co.za

This article appeared in the August 2007 issue of TOPbike magazine

Botswanananaa!

2007-07-08T00:52:00.001+02:00

DAY1 – Thursday 28 June 2007
Cape to Upington – 761km

I was having a key problem morning. First the damn front door wouldn’t lock properly, and then I struggled with the damn tri-circle on the garage door. Damn rusting piece of Chinese junk!
When I finally got going I was in a sweat and barely registered the chilly morning.

We got together at the Engen Winelands One-stop outside Kraaifontein. It was 06:20 on a June morning. After a quick coffee and visual inspection of each other’s bikes we lit up the dark road north.

Cold and wet morning in the Cape
S33 49 40.3 E18 45 42.3

The temperature seemed quite pleasant at first. After a short while on the N1 we were confident that we wouldn’t in fact succumb to an Eskimo death.
We circled around the back of Paarl Mountain and entered the cold, cold town of Wellington where people were smacking their bedside alarms out of hazy spite.

Up and over the Du Toitskloof Pass. By now my knuckles felt like granite and my fingers like bleached bone. Out of curiosity I cycled through the onboard computer to the ambient temperature display. It was 2°C and my arms were stiff as oars. Negotiating the sharp turns felt unnatural, almost as if I was moving my limbs via remote control. The pitch blackness only served to unnerve me even more.

We stopped at the single lane bridges that cross the Breerivier and each had a cigarette.
I suppose we were to discuss trivia. Perhaps about the interesting fact that the source of the Breerivier is just a stones throw northwest. But we could only talk of the cold…the coooolllldd.
I wondered out loud what a minus temperature feels like on a bike. I should have kept my bloody mouth shut…

After witnessing the dawn of our father sun from Michell’s Pass we filled up in Ceres (Beautiful Goddess of Agriculture) and headed off to the magnificent Ceres-Karoo dirt highway. A road that is best appreciated just after the crack of dawn.
The temperatures we dropping lower as we crossed into the Kouebokkeveld. Hello -2°C! My fingers felt like they were on fire!
At Hottentotskloof we stopped to let down the tyres. Normally you can ride the great Ceres-Karoo highway on regular pressures but recent rains probably did awkward things to the surface. We would take no chances this early on in our trip, and indeed, now and then we splashed through puddles and muddy patches.

S32 34 11.0 E19 41 31.2

S32 30 21.9 E19 41 17.3

S32 10 02.3 E19 42 44.8

Kaboef took out a 1.5litre coke bottle filled with Sedgwick’s Old Brown sherry. Always a winner! The fag felt foreign between my numb lips but the warm heat washing down my thought was reassuring.
On we went on that most beautiful of dirt highways. The sun was a hands width above the horizon and the mica in the ground glittered like precious metal, the quarts flashed brightly and the green lichen was spread out like small pools of emerald.
The cold and beauty of the landscape was intoxicating…okay I’ll come clean…the OBS was really to blame. We had finished the 1.5litres waaaaay before we even came close to Calvinia.

In Calvinia we had mutton pie and red bull. Snow capped the low mountains outside town. We didn’t want to linger.

North, always north. That spirit breaker that is the R27 fought us all the way to Brandvlei. Its long straight tar taps into your skull and bleeds your mind dry. The distance between Brandvlei and Kenhardt is only 148km but once we finished it we were mentally drained. It is the most boring road I have ever ridden…this was the second time Kaboef and I suffered it, thrice for Butch.
It is for that reason that we felt obliged to custom the Kenhardt Hotel. Eaton (the proprietor) was away in Upington to restore a vintage Chev bakkie, so his wife kept us company. She tried her best to engage us in conversation but it took at least two beers to drive away the ghosts of the R27.

We stocked up in Upington and made our way to our first overnight spot of the trip: Monate Kalahari Rest Camp.
The camp is located 12km Northwest of Calvinia’s town centre along the R360. The gate is directly opposite the entrance to the Spitskop Nature Reserve. The campsites are quite good with brand new roll-on lawn and small saplings.
Every spot has a built-up braai and a lamppost. The ablutions are clean and had 24hour hot water on tap. All of the toilet seats were intact and the mirrors in one piece.
We appreciated none of it. As soon as our tents were up we started celebrating the opening day. I don’t remember much but there is video footage of me and Butch doing a karate Kata and performing scenes from The Lord of the Rings. When we exhausted our entire stock of alcohol, (it was meant to last for approximately 4days) we called it a day and went to bed. The temperatures hit -5°C that night. We were blessedly unaware of it.

Monate Kalahari Rest Camp is at: S28 22 42.3 E21 09 30.2

DAY2 – Friday 29 June 2007
Upington to Tshabong – 461km

Oh my head…
We were supposed to cross the border soon but our tents were still up. The next 460 odd kilometres were not kind to us. At Sishen we saw the multi-kilometre long train leave the mines on its slow journey south to the port of Saldanha. Everything was covered in red iron dust. Like invaders from Earth we rode through the Martian landscape.

I put out my hand and dropped it again. Picking up that box of wine from the shelf in Hotazel was a matter of supreme faith that my hangover would eventually pass. We fueled up for the last time in South Africa and made our way to McCarthy’s Rest border post.

The road there is tricky to say the least. It starts just outside the small community of Black Rock and cuts through the soft ground. Large sections had the consistency of sugar. Shallow gravely sand rutted into mad tracks. Before you knew it you were on hard bedrock with nasty potholes. We could weave around the traps but it made the going slow. About halfway along the 110km road the sand came. Not terribly deep but tricky to ride below 80km/h and scary to ride above it. Rolling the throttle on off was the only cure.

Taking it easy on the hardpack
S26 38 14.7 E22 42 17.0

We made it to the border with only 30 minutes to spare. The border guards were quite taken with our bikes and wasted our time by admiring every aspect of them. Their intentions were good but the result somewhat inconvenient.

The border opens at 07:00 and closes at 16:30
You will have to fill in a small leaflet as well as a register. Take your own pen. Two separate fees are payable: 40pula for the Short-Term Permit (a visa for non-South Africans is more but I don’t know by how much) and 20pula for a Road Safety Levy (all told about R95.00). Expect to spend about forty minutes clearing both sides of the border.
You may pay the border fees in Rand or US dollars but this is the last time those currencies are worth anything. The Batswana except only Pula, and why shouldn’t they, theirs is the strongest currency in Africa.

Passing through the Botswana border was hassle free except for the fact that Kaboef’s GS had a puncture that needed fixing. Originally we were to spend our second night in Kang but that was quite out of the question. So we headed for the nearest town of Tshabong.

Tshabong is an ugly nest of scoundrels and villains (or so we later learned). There was no fuel and cars queued up at both garages. Outside one of the garages we spied a sign promising accommodation. Berrybush Safari Camp.

Located 10km up the Sekoma road and 3km into the Kalahari desert. The sun had already set and less than 30minutes of visibility remained. Riding the sand to a place that may or may not be a hellhole was an interesting prospect.
When we got there our fears were dispelled. A lady dressed in a large poncho with skin toughened by years of service in Africa greeted us warmly. When she heard of our plans to pitch tents, Jill Thomas vehemently refused and offered us two rooms instead. We were on a tight budget and expressed our concern. Undaunted she cut her price of P360.00 to P200.00 and threw in all the wood we could burn in the deal. It was too good to pass up and we relented. We made a big old fire that night but retired shortly after we finished out meal of pasta, bully beef and cheese sauce.

Chilling by the fire

Kaross blanket made of animal furs…

A nice bit of sand
S25 57 12.5 E22 26 29.2

The turnoff to Berrybush
S25 57 28.5 E22 27 06.6

Berrybush Safari Camp is a great place to stay over. The staff are friendly (Afrikaans speaking even though they are native Batswana) and the accommodation comfy. Were it not for the bad road leading into it I would recommend it for every biker on any bike. A regular family sedan should be able to drive it though, but I can’t guarantee it.
Facilities include cooked meals, ablutions for campers, en-suites for roomers, a pool table, a dart board, DSTV, game viewing drive-outs, swimming (Apparently, though god knows where) pets welcome and children under 12 stay for free.

Berrybush Safari Camp is at: S25 56 47.5 E22 25 40.9

DAY3 – Saturday 30 June 2007
Tshabong to Ghanzi – 644km

Fuel were delivered to Tshabong during the night so we returned there to fill up. The road northeast hugged the Molopo river. Botswana seemed flat and featureless. All the hills appeared to be on the South African side of the border.

Welcome to flatland

We were headed for Sekoma for a fuel stop but instead we were fortunate to find one earlier on in Werda.

This allowed us the opportunity to cut roughly 80km from our journey by opening up the shortcut from Khakhea directly to the A2.
The road was quite sandy. Not fine beach or Kalahari sand but rather a course gravely sort. Fortunately I have a little experience with the stuff and found it quite enjoyable in a sadistic sort of way.

Sand thy glorious villain
S24 29 57.7 E23 25 58.1

Butch did not like it at all. It might have something to do with the fact that he crashed at a moer of a speed and nearly maimed himself. It took him a while to return to his senses and even longer to lift his heavy KTM. The sand monster had spoken.

Butch kissing the Trans-Kalahari Highway, not worshiping his bike…
S24 17 12.2 E23 21 30.4

We puttered up the great Trans-Kalahari highway on deflated tyres at a 100km/h. At Kang we filled up with fuel and chicken pies while conversing with the locals about the area.
At almost every stop we had to explain the workings of our bikes and the motivation behind our trip.

Quite early on in our trip we discovered the magic sentence: “Hello, how are you?”
At first I merely replied with: “Fine, thanks” and continued with a line of inquiry. Later on we discovered that spending an extra few seconds with pleasantries opened up huge possibilities and opportunities. If we were able to shoot off those four words first we were rewarded with warm smiles and good service. The Batswana are an extremely friendly people who don’t perform well when being rude to. More on that later…

Have I mentioned how flat Botswana is? The long tar road ran straight for a kilometre or two, turn a degree and continue again for a kilometre before once again sweeping back a degree. Large invisible objects must cause the lazy twists in the road because we saw no hills or mountains.
After an hour or so on the utterly flat road we saw a sign proclaiming a valley of some sort ahead. I got all excited and sat up straight in anticipation of this visual marvel.
We sped through a dip in the road and 15 minutes realised that that must have been it. The dip was the valley…okay.

Ghanzi promised to be a large town judging by the increasing number of billboards staggered along the road still several kilometres outside town. We heeded one such billboard and took the turnoff to Thakadu Rest Camp.
I could see Butch cringe at the sight of more sand. That fall earlier in the day really shook him up for he toppled over once more and despondently smoked a cigarette in disgust.

The sand soon gave way to a very hard dirt road littered with rocks. My bike shuddered and clapped noisily. I had no idea what was wrong with it.

The management of Thakadu Rest Camp were great. We were guided to a great camp spot called Carl’s Campsite off the regular path. This site was close to the bar and far from the other campers. Perfect!
Once the tents were up we moseyed on over to the bar and ordered steaks, big ones.

We stayed until closing time and sang our way back to camp. We once again emptied or liquor supply and retreated to our tents at around 3:00.
Bikes and an iPod with speakers is all you need for a party.

Three drunken stooges and a burning bush

Packing up the next morning

The entrance to Thakadu Rest Camp is roughly 4km south of Ghanzi (pronounced Gan-tsi with a guttural G) along the A2. From there it is another 3km along a nasty sand/rocky road to the camp itself.
The ablutions are fine and the bar well stocked. The camp spots are devoid of any lawn but covered by canopies of shady thorn trees. Watch out for punctures!!
Camping fees are 35pula per person
A wheelbarrow of wood costs 20pula
Large evening meals are between 30 and 40pula

Thakadu Rest Camp is at: S21 44 19.5 E21 40 48.0

DAY4 – Sunday 1 July 2007
Ghanzi to Maun – 308km

While we zombied around the campsite we were laughed at by other campers as they walked by. We surmised that we were quite loud the night before and kept quite a few people up past their bedtime. Seeing us stumbling around in slow motion must have offered a feeling of justice or revenge.

We rode into town and found an open grocery store (S21 41 40.6 E21 38 55.2) where we bought some chicken pies and spicy Russians. It was heaven sent.
At the garage a guy came up to be and pointed out an oil leak near the front of my bike. After a quick inspection I discovered that the front shock absorber was leaking fluid. The bike still rode fine except when I hit a bump in the road, then it made a distinct metallic noise…not good. Since it was a Sunday and I would find no shops open, we decided to push on to Maun as planned.

It was only a short hop to Maun and we got there in the early afternoon. We were considering two options for accommodation. The well known Audi camp 14km north of Maun or the hotel camp grounds on the outskirts of town. Audi camp won because they were located on the banks of the Thamalakane river and lawn to camp on…a luxury in Botswana.

We entered Audi camp along a short sandy road. If you don’t like riding in sand, don’t bother coming to Botswana. There is no avoiding it, it’s everywhere.
After checking in at the friendly reception desk we made our way to the designated ‘budget camper’ area. There we met Gerd and Gerd 2, two guys from the black forest in Germany.
They were on XT600’s and had already spent 6months on the road. We immediately hooked up, as like minded people tend to do.

XT’s for sale. Slightly used

Camping on the lawn proved to be less inviting than we thought. There with tiny sharp thorns everywhere and they threatened to puncture our inflatable mattresses. On one end of the campsite stood a large thatched boma. It was empty inside and presumably used for a kitchen in the rain season. We took our tents and moved right in.

Our private villa

Nice and cosy with the covers down

With time to waste before supper, Kaboef and I removed the shock from the front suspension. Not and easy task since the bike was not designed for such field repairs.
The only way to get the shock out was to lean heavily on the bike to compress the suspension. Then we tied straps around the contracted coil spring to keep it from expanding again. Next we put the bike on its centre stand supported with bricks under the bash plate. We then unbolted the shock and slipped it out of the cavity. It took a while to figure out the sequence but it worked a treat.
The shock had definitely blown a seal and it was sticky and wet with fluids.

under construction

I made a plan to take it to town the following ay to have it repaired, although I could see no way to open it up. The shock appeared to be a sealed unit, all the seams welded shut.

After cleaning off the grease we headed over to the bar where we had another great opportunity to blow money. The food was great and the company even better. We met up with ze Germans again and they invited us along on a chartered flight over the Okavango they managed to organise.
Back at our chalet we finished the last drops of whiskey while playing dominos Cape Flats style… “Snake Eyes!” whack! “Threinspore!!” whack! “Die Drie Enigheid!!!” whack!

I know what you’re thinking…no, we were not a nuisance to other campers.

Audi camp is probably Maun’s best know camp. It has a luxurious open-air bar and restaurant. Next to the reception is a tour operator who will try to rip you off and a curio shop with exorbitant prices. The ablutions are rustic and has hot water 24/7. The flow of the hot water is a little unpredictable though. A strong hot stream would suddenly be replaced by a lukewarm trickle and then suddenly by a spurt of cold water and once you touch the taps the hot water comes back on with a vengeance. The cycle repeats in a random order so you are forced to dance around and constantly tune the taps like a DJ on ‘E’ at a rave party.
Camping is 35pula per person (South Africans pay 28pula) and a 20pula tourist levy each day. This equates to 48pula (about 67 ZAbucks) per day per South African.
There are campsites with individual power supplies but they cost a little more.
Top Tip: The un-powered campsite does have power. There are several active sockets in the boma shared by all.

Audi Camp is at: S19 56 02.9 E23 30 32.6

DAY5 – Monday 2 July 2007
Maun – Rest day

We got up at nine and I prepared for an embarrassment: Butch was kind enough to lend me his KTM so that I could take my leaky BMW shock absorber to town.
Unfortunately it was a public holiday and most of the shops were closed. The industrial area was almost devoid of activity with only a few private workshops open. One such workshop was manned by two Zimbabweans with a blow-torch.
I was a little reluctant to hand over a R5,000.00 shock (and my only way of getting home) to them. After a quick and expensive call to BMW Assist I was told that the shock is not rebuildable and any attempts to work on it will result in the destruction of the shock. And no, they would not come and get me…

So Kaboef and I rode back to Audi and refitted the shock to the bike. There was one more person I could call for help. Adventurer!
Ever the gentleman, he organised a contact at Lyndhurst Auto to phone me back. Allen Matthews listened to my sorry tale and immediately set to work to get me a replacement part. What a great guy! After a few more calls from my two benefactors the bad news was laid upon me: There were no replacement shocks in South Africa. None!
The official party line is that these things don’t break… I was the first recorded case. Bullshit!
Lyndhurst Auto tried their best to assist me but alas BMW Motorrad SA is just too stubborn to listen to its clients, a sad statement but evidently true in my case.

But enough complaints. It was time to get pro-active. I took that C-spanner and cranked up the load on the coil spring to maximum. Riding on a pogo-stick is better than squirting oil all over the place!

Off we went to the airport and checked ourselves in at the charter company, Kavango Air. We paid 320pula each for a one hour flip over the Okavango. The plane was a Cessna CE-206 ‘Stationaire’. A rickety piston driven single prop with a Scottish pilot by the name of John Cox.
John joked that the plane was the Landrover of the skies. That did not bode well…

At the airport

Our bird

ze Germans. Gerd und Gerd

The flight was a bumpy one and I got air-sick about 15minutes into the flight. I managed to keep my lunch down and bravely gave a thumbs-up very time one of the lads made a joke or gave each other a high five.
Never have a wished for a flight to end as much as that one. I got a few pics of the wildlife though…in between moments of deep breathing and puke backwash…

Maun suburbia

Elephant wading in the delta

We took the sunset flight. 16:00 – 17:00

Buffalo

Swamps

Elephant

Boro river at the Moremi Wildlife reserve

Animal crossings between islands

We saw several Elephant, Giraffe, buffalo, antelope, hippo and birds from the plane. It’s not a lot of money and well worth the expense. Do it!

Back to camp we went after getting supplies from town and wood from a nearby house. That night we stayed up late again, listening to the travel tales of Gerd and Gerd2. You can visit their website by clicking on this link: [url=www.vonbnacha.de]von B nach A[/url].
They are currently in Nam but should arrive in Cape Town in early August. Their bikes are for sale if anyone is interested and they are in need of a job for the duration of their stay.
I gave them the forum address and hopefully they will register.

booze and wood - the makings of a party

DAY6 – Tuesday 3 July 2007
Maun to Francistown – 539km

We left Maun as early as we could and made our way along the A3 in the direction of Francistown. I desperately wanted to visit the Makgadikgadi pans. Particularly Bains Boababs on the Nxai pan or Kukonje island on the Sowa pan. Alas my shock was still weeping intermittedly (which bothered me) and after speaking to some travellers who had just returned from the pans, we decided to skip it. I was very sad but the travellers told of rutted sand tracks (which bothered Butch), roaming lions (wich bothered Kaboef) and incessant sand storms (which bothered us all).

Sad to miss the salt pans

Veterinary Control Checkpoint – one of many

Cattle hazards

Donkey hazards

Roads, trees and skies – thousands of miles of it

So on we went to Francistown to look for a place to stay.
What a dump! If I never see Francistown again it will be too soon. After spending an hour riding around in mad traffic, searching for a place to stay, Kaboef took us back out in the direction of Maun to where he saw a promising signboard.

The turnoff for Woodlands Stopover is at S21 07 11.8 E27 26 43.9
We followed and bumpy gravel road that made my shock rattle like a gorilla in a cage. After about 7km in the dark we arrived at Woodlands Stopover. Oh my, was it worth it.
The helpful staff booked us into a nice little cottage for not much more than it would cost to camp. They sold us braai packs and wood, condiments and snacks. We built a huge fire and ate heartily. Kaboef went to bed early, proving once again that the young ones may have the energy but the old ballies have the endurance.
Butch and I stayed up until the wee hours, stoking the flames and talking pop philosophy.

Woodlands Stopover is at: S21 04 53.8 E27 27 52.4

DAY7 – Thursday 7 July 2007
Francistown to Sun City – 648km

Our little cottage at Woodlands Stopover

In my limited opinion there are only three places worth seeing in Botswana. The Central Kalahari – Where bikes can’t go. The Okavango Delta – Did that, The Makgadikgadi pans – Didn’t do that. We rode one and a half thousand kilometres inside Botswana without any visible geological or biological changes.
Don’t get me wrong, the trees are beautiful but did there have to be so damn many of them? I love the flat openness of the Karoo but the whole of Botswana appeared to have no topographical variance (i.e. flat as fcuk!). And after the horror that is Francistown we had no appetite for the bustling Gaberone. So we decided to head over to the Tuli Block. At Serule we swung left to the mining town of Selebi Pikwe. There were no traditional houses and huts in SP. All the homes were of western design and had lush gardens. Obviously this place was heavily influenced by South African mining companies.
After the habitual chicken pie at the garage we rode south to Martin’s Drift/Grobler’s Bridge border post.

Butch getting a 50pula fine for speeding
S21 59 59.4 E27 50 49.8

Look!! A hill! The first one we saw in Botswana
S22 24 00.6 E27 46 14.5

Passing through the border was effortless and quick. Fuel was available at the Botswana border and at Tom Burke 10km inside South Africa.

Grobler’s Bridge
S22 59 53.0 E27 56 31.1

We headed south through the Limpopo province via Ellisras (sorry, Lephalale) and Thabazimbi. Wow, what a change. We were immediately surrounded by hills (but I’m told the locals call them mountains hahaha) and twisty roads. Twisty roads! I had forgotten what they are like and almost didn’t make the first bend, I was that out of practice!

When we reached Thabazimbi it was already dark and we decided to spoil ourselves. I don’t know who came up with the Idea first but we made up our mind to visit Sol in his gambling mecca.

It was dark and miserable with rain. Cars rushed between Thabazimbi and Rustenburg. We couldn’t see much through our wet visors and the blinding oncoming traffic. The penetrating cold didn’t help things along either.
We got to the gilded gates of Sol’s Pleasure dome at around 19:30 and was asked R65 each to come inside. The Gatekeeper looked unsure if she should allow the three dirty and wet bikers inside.
We made it in nevertheless and rumbled up to the Cabanas resort first on your right. The very cheapest room they had cost R1500 per night and it was tiny!
So the receptionist spoke to the manager on our behalf and gave us a larger double room with a lake facing view at the same price. She even allowed the third person in for free. How nice is that!?
After unpacking our pikes and donning more acceptable attire we explored the Casino and Valley of the Waves. It was dark so not much could be seen.

We then made our way to the Famous Grill and Butcher for a humongous meal. Aperitif, Entrée, main course, desert and Irish Coffee! All washed down with bottles of red wine and Jack Daniels. The meal cost almost as much as my entire Botswana budget but it was worth it.

Perhaps in size but not in fleetingness, we wobbled back like MTN blimps. A movie was on the TV but deep sleep was the only thing we sought.

The Sun City Cabanas are at: S25 20 55.4 E27 06 08.0

DAY7 – Thursday 7 July 2007
Sun City to Britstown – 829km

We woke up to a beautiful dawn over the lake.

The Lost City – can’t go there, ain’t got enough money

Kaboef – probably missing his chick again

Breakfast was included in our accommodation fee or so we thought. In fact only two breakfasts were included and Butch was bullied into paying R90 for his crackers and cheese.

Butch needed to be back in CapeTown by Friday evening but there was nothing chasing Kaboef and I. Yet the desire to go home was growing strong.
We rode down to Koster and on to Lichtenburg where we posed our horses next to one of South Africa’s famous horsemen.
An Afrikaner legend who turned a second-rate Afrikaans musician into an overnight success.

Generaal, generaal. Soos een man sal ons om jou val…

From Lichtenburg we cruised down to Vryburg, Taung and Hartswater where my Dad’s office is. I had a quick visit with my old man and promised to come see him soon again. Next time for a longer visit.

After Warrenton came Kimberley. Next fell Hopetown and Strydenburg. We invaded Bristown around eight.
I had achieved a personal fuel consumption record with my 1200GSA. 653km on one tank averaging a speed of 120km/h. It took 33.3litres to fill up the tank. The tank takes 33litres. Not bad considering the bike wore those boxy Touratech panniers.

We booked ourselves into the Transkaroo Hotel. A very strange place!
We thought we’d get a cheap room in a dingy dive and get to guzzle beer with the locals but alas the hotel had no bar and the décor told of recent renovation.

The hallways were dimly lit with pictures of schoolchildren posing for sports group photos. Strict faces of headmasters lined the walls of one room. The dates below their names going back to the 1800s.
The kitchen staff were friendly if a little bewildered. They kept on accidentally dropping food as if they were recently trained and let out on their first unsupervised mission. The rooms very comfy with thick duvets and heaters. We took a bottle of fine wine from their cellar and enjoyed it in the courtyard.

The Transkaroo Hotel is run by Rian & Adlene Potgieter (originally from Malmesbury).
Accommodation is R100 per person. Each person gets a private room with two beds. A communal shower, bath and toilet is located in the passage.
Family and executive rooms cost more but they have their own en-suites and are apparently lavishly furnished.
The dining room is cosy with a wealth of foodstuffs on sale. Three course dinners are R90 per person and include a selection of deserts.
Secure undercover parking is available at no additional cost.

The Transkaroo Hotel is at: S30 35 16.7 E23 30 18.6

DAY8 – Friday 8 July 2007
Britstown to Kriges – 683km

Waiting at roadworks

There’s not much to say about this leg of the trip except that passed fairly quickly probably because we were in familiar territory.
We stayed on the N1 all the way to Bellville. From Bainskloof Pass we could see a huge wall of a cold front advancing from the Atlantic Ocean.

By the time we got to Brackenfell our two groups clashed. We the bikers returning home against the Cape’s relentless rain. It was not the warm welcome we had hoped for. Driving to Kriges was an experience. It was rush hour and everyone was returning home from work. We three bikers looked travel weary but proud.
We drew quite a few envious glances from cagers stuck in their afternoon commute, I must say.
At Kriges we sat outside under the densest tree while it rained softly around us.
The familiar waitresses came to us and enquired where we were this time. Nothing surprises them anymore and they merely brought the usual glasses of Old Brown without being asked.
We reminisced on our trip and laughed at ourselves, the stupid things we did and the mistakes we made.
On the second glass of OBS we were contemplating a trip to Mozambique. Stand by, it’ll probably happen soon.

Thank you, I am LuckyStriker and I like chicken pies!

Extra Info
8 things I didn’t mention earlier

1. Manners
Please be courteous to the Motswana. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it was when one angry South African started to shout at a Stanbic Bank employee about their bad service. He included me in his ranting dispite the fact that I didn’t want to be associated with him. Always remember that you are a guest in another man’s country. Whatever you do, don’t swear and exclaim: “Typical Africa!

2. Electricity
I saw three types of sockets during our brief travels. Some establishments use an American socket and some the standard South African three-prong type socket. I Maun I saw a three-prong socket that was smaller than the standard South African plug. The most prolific was the South African standard, the least common was the European two-prong socket. They run on 220v.

3. Money
Credit cards can be used in all major town both in shops and at garages to pay for fuel. Visa and Mastercard is the only thing that works. We had some trouble drawing cash with our debit cards since their network was down frequently.
2000pula was adequate spending money for each of us. Keep in mind that we used that money for food, lodging, fuel, booze and touristy things like the Okavango flight and gifts.
The 2000pula did not include the money we spent in South Africa. That is another kettle of fish entirely. Let’s just say that the entire trip did not cost much more that you’d pay for this year’s GS Challenge!

4. Fuel
Fuel is not really a problem. Only one town had fuel problems but it was probably due to late delivery. One other town had no unleaded but sufficient LRP.
Fuel cost around 5.50pula per litre (R7.60) so it’s rather costly.

5. People
The Motswana are a friendly bunch if you behave yourself. Always greet them and smile when they smile. Saying: “Hello, how are you?” goes a long way. Answering: “I am fine, how are you?” does the same.
When exchanging money it is customary to give/receive with your right hand and gently touch the inside of your elbow with your left hand. Don’t worry, it’s not expected of you to know this and even when I did it a couple of times I perceived no extra appreciation.

6. Police
What a friendly country. The truth is that Botswana borders on being a Police state. Cops are everywhere and the main occupation seems to work for the government in one form or another. The police are mostly friendly but don’t backchat or quibble when you are stopped. Bribes are not uncommon (Butch paid a on-the-spot fine for which he received no receipt).

7. Foot and Mouth disease checkpoints
Good grief! These people are paranoid to the Nth degree about food and mouth disease. There are innumerable checkpoints you have to pass through. They can become quite irritating.
First you queue up and dismount. Remove your helmet and wait for the dude to come to you or beckon you closer. They usually rummage through your belongings but not always. Sometimes they expect you to ride your bike through sheep dip and wash the soles of all your shoes in buckets of extermination agent.
Experiences at these checkpoints vary from a quick stop with a friendly: “Hello, how are you?” “Hello I am fine, how are you?” “I am fine, thank you” “Okay bye” “Thank you, bye” to a half hour long quiz about you destination, your travel itinerary, your occupation, your bike, etc…
Take it all on the chin and bare it. It’s their job and you’ll just have to get used to it.

8. Industry
There’s not much they can do for bikes in Botswana. Except for in Gabarone you won’t find many mechanics who can work on a complicated machine. The large tourist towns like Maun do have some 4x4 specialists who survive on fixing Landies but I doubt they can reprogram the CDI of a KTM 990. They certainly couldn’t fix my BMW shock.
Welders are a dime a dozen and tyre fixers are equally common. If you have serious trouble the best bet is to head for Johannesburg or Windhoek.

A shortened version of this article appeared in the January 2008 issue of TOPbike magazine.

Northern Cape Jolyt!

2007-04-13T01:53:00.000+02:00

On our Nam Bam trip we visited a place called Bushwacked Camp on the shore of the Orange River. We had such great fun that we decided to go back there again for Easter Weekend. This is that trip plus a little extra:

Day one – Friday 6 April 2007:
Route: Kriges to Bushwacked
687km
Road conditions: 677km tarred highway. 10km average condition dirt road.

We met at Kriges Pub early on Friday morning. At least two of us suffered from bleary vision and puffy, red eyes caused by going to bed way to late the previous night.
Nothing than brushing your teeth with Red Bull couldn’t sort out though.

The travellers were: Butch on the 990Adventure, Kaboef + Marli on the 1150Adventure, LuckyStriker + Zanie on the 1200Adventure.

Riding north along the N7 was a tortured affair with me constantly struggling to find the perfect line around bends. Fortunately there weren’t that many kinks in the road and when we reached Piketberg, I was getting back in the zone.

The KTM has a sweet sound with stock pipes. Not a loud roar, just the ripping buzz of a competent sounding machine.
That damn KTM also got the most attention from passers by whenever we stopped for a break.

The road to the border was a long one. It took us almost 10hours to ride the almost-700 kilometres. Our average freeway speed was between 120 and 140km/h but we relaxed a lot at various towns. Why rush? We were on holiday after all.

We arrived at Bushwacked on the banks of the Orange River just before 5 and immediately proceeded to the bar for a cold one.

S28 41 24.5 E17 35 00.1 – Bushwacked Camp

The bar is adorned with horns, skulls and number plates from all around South Africa, as well as a bizarre collection of stolen artefacts such as Spur menus and salt shakers.

That night we were doused with beer spray and emptied the bars entire supply of Gin. Memories started to fade after we tried releasing the mooring ropes of a floating jetty and attempted to sail the roughly 300km to the Atlantic Ocean.
But I’ll stop right there, what happens on the river stays on the river…

Day two – Saturday 7 April 2007:

Day three – Sunday 8 April 2007:
Route: Bushwacked to Pofadder
348km
Road conditions: 90km sandy and rocky tracks, 258km tarred highway

We broke down our camp early and prepared for the trip to Augrabies where we planned to stay over.

Rooiwal Missionary Church

We traced a shortcut through the desert that would enable us to avoid going back down to Springbok again. Balsak, our bartender at Bushwacked camp, assured us that the road would take us to Pella but that it was not for the feint of heart.
He was right on one account but completely wrong on another.

The turnoff to the promised 4x4 route is at co-ordinates S28 54 14.9 E17 43 32.1 just to the left of a run down shop selling semiprecious stones and crystals.

At first the roads seemed lovely. Twin tracks snaking across fantastic open landscapes. Fairly hard dirt with a thin layer of sand, nothing technical.

We had discovered DS heaven, beautiful landscapes accessible via a 4x4 route that even novices could ride.
That was all about to change…

Things would get a little tricky later on. Butch accurately predicts the amount of times he would fall his ass off.

Cute little plants…one of those buggers poked a hole in Butch’s tire.

Incredible landscapes. I hope you can get some idea of the awesome views we were graciously given.

On reviewing my pictures after the trip, I discovered that certain areas had orange-red coloured sand whilst other areas; tones of brown or even yellow. I wish I could give you an informative comment regarding this.

It was immensely hot. My onboard computer claimed it was only 40°C but it sure felt a lot hotter. As Pvt. Hudson said in ‘Aliens’: “It must be the dry heat”

The twin tracks soon degraded into deeply rutted, dry sand. Keeping our heavily laden bikes from moering over was becoming increasingly difficult.

The nightmarish sand eventually let off as we entered a rocky area.

The heat in this particular cauldron was the stuff of legend. I didn’t even bother to check the computer, it was obviously a liar.
As soon as we stripped of our ATGATT we made for the pitch black shade cast by strangely cool rocks.

Gone were the sandy plains and we found ourselves on tracks with razor sharp stones. We rode slowly and took great care not to cut the sidewalls of our tires.
That wonderful feeling of adventure started to settle over us. A feeling most of you, dear readers, know so well.

A beautiful kloof opened up before us and we prepared for a very steep descent down an eroded trail. The trail was impassable for vehicles other than bikes and 4wheel drive vehicles.

The women were told to walk and fend for themselves while we continued with the manly work of looking after our bikes and creeping them down the rocky trail. One slip here and our pride and joys could sustain unfortunate damage.

Lo and behold, one of us lost his footing and the bike came smashing down. Butch was unceremoniously flung over the handlebars only to get his hand stuck in the throttle. The bike roared with fury and the spinning rear wheel spat out a cloud of shrapnel.

When we got to him, he was already on his feet with the bike pacified. Lifting it was no easy task. Who would have thought KTMs were such heavy buggers?
On close inspection we found deep gashes in the crash bars, some minor scratches on the tupperware and one limp indicator stem.

Goats roamed the rocky hills unattended and huddled in the few pools of shade available to them. They reminded me of boxed silk worms congregating and feasting on leaves.

Then came the sand again. The rocky valleys had dry riverbeds where the bikes swam in loose sand as if piloted by drunken captains on stormy seas. Each of us dropped our bikes or came very close to it.
The 1200GSA had a spotlight shorn clean off and broken windscreen pins whilst the 1150GSA lost only a sticker off a pannier…lucky bastard!

My GPS ran out of usable info quite some time ago and we were basically riding blind along a myriad of tracks that either went nowhere or circled back in on themselves. Butch had Tracks4Africa on his GPS but the device would no longer work on batteries. We plugged it into the 1200GSAs power supply and could finally see where the hell we were. Navigation suddenly became a lot easier in that confusing landscape. It appeared we were on some Toyota 4x4 Challenge route…whatever.

The GPS led us to a road in the distance that seemed to be a nice main artery.
Great was out disappointment when we discovered a wide but tired road, sickly with more twisted, rutted sand.
After a few minutes on it, we decided to ride the cattle tracks alongside the road. I wish I could say it was a lot easier but I can’t. The KTM dug a shallow grave for itself and had to be pushed out while the BMWs shuddered and bounced over the uneven ground. At least it was better than constantly fearing for your life on the insanely crappy road just a few meters to our right.

When we finally hit tar we just had to demonstrate to each other how we dealt with the roads behind us.

The shortcut we hoped to take did not exist (thanks for nothing Balsak!) and after spending 4hours on 80km of track, we ended up in Springbok anyway…something we were hoping to avoid…but, we did see the most awesome landscape few people will bother to go look for.

The KTM had developed a slow puncture caused by a mesquite thorn and we had to spend 45minutes repairing it.

The scorpions were a bitch to get back on the rims. This is something you would want to avoid doing on your own.

The original plan was to stay over at Augrabies but at 300+ kilometres away it was too far to reach before nightfall. The sun was already setting so we made a sprint for Pofadder instead.

We got to Pofadder during the last minutes of twilight. The campsite looked dreadful and its office already closed. So we went over to the world famous (okay, maybe not that famous) Pofadder Hotel to make enquiries. We were welcomed by incredibly friendly staff that made us feel right at home.

We booked a chalet just outside town for R495.00 and after one or two beers each, made our way there. I wish I could tell you the lengths the staff went to make our stay as agreeable as possible but I can’t. We promised to be discreet.
All I can say is that you should give them a try if you pass through the area and perhaps you too will get such sterling service.

Day four – Monday 9 April 2007:
Route: Pofadder to Verneukpan
357km
Road conditions: 154km dirt roads and gravel tracks, 203 tarred highway

We didn’t stay up too late the previous night and the addition of crispy clean beds in air conditioned rooms supplied a spring in our step the next morning.

The chalets. There are six of them circling a bougainvillea filled garden. They even had TV, though we didn’t bother to see what was on.

Pofadder Hotel. We dropped in again to hand over the keys and eat a delicious breakfast.

Then it was off again to Augrabies and its thunderous falls. The water levels were a bit low during our visit but it was still an awesome sight to behold.

Slippery rocks!

It was my turn to get a puncture. Just outside Kakemas (read it backwards for extra appreciation) the front suddenly went flat. Fortunately the hole was easy to find and 5minutes later it was plugged and we were back on the road.

The road from Kakemas to Kenhardt is fairly decent. Now and then a sandy rut will cause your heart to skip a beat if you weren’t paying attention to the road but for the most part it’s all just one big smooth highway through rocky landscapes and Camelthorn trees.

When we arrived at Kenhardt we stopped by the hotel for a quick beer each. It was becoming an institution to visit every hotel on our route! Please excuse my posterior, some photographers have no discretion.

The proprietor is a friendly chap who assisted Zanie in getting in contact with the landowners of Verneukpan. The pan actually belongs to a number of farmers but the flat section we were aiming to camp on was the more popular part and thus permission was apparently required.

We were given the OK by the landowners via telephone and finished our shopping across the street. We would have to carry our own wood and water as the pan has no facilities or amenities.

After signing our names on the wall, Zanie got a call from the Verneukpan landowners. They had a change of heart and now required R100 payment from each of us. That would be R500 to camp on their property! We were appalled. We didn’t mind paying for the privilege but this was extortion! Not only were they clearly trying to rip us off but they were asking more than the local hotel tariffs, even the Pofadder chalet! And yet they supplied no ablutions, no running water, no shade, no secure parking, bugger all but clean air and flat ground! “Fcuk them”; we all thought.

So we rode to Verneukpan anyway with the intent to camp on the section of the pan just outside their fence and thus off their particular piece of land.

The pan had signs of recent rain but mercifully little to no mud remained.

We turned off the track and headed inland as far from the through fare as we liked. The pan was covered in islands of plant life that we weaved through in search of that perfect spot.
We found a clearing large enough to drive around on and pitched our camp.

Marli took Kaboef’s GSA for a spin and toppled over right in front of us. As is usual behaviour for Wilddogs, we got the cameras out before helping her and the bike up.

The sunset was breathtaking. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that no picture can capture the magnificence of a Turkish Delight sunset.

The fire crackled away late into the night, the only sound in an utterly silent landscape. We put some music on eventually and shared stories from our pasts and joked about people we knew.
On the horizon behind us we could see lightning flashes of a distant thunderstorm. Silent.
When the familiar constellations twisted upside down and dropped below the horizon, Zanie and I crept into our sleeping bags and fell asleep under the stars, our tent still stowed in its bag.

Day five – Tuesday 10 April 2007:
Route: Verneukpan to Kriges pub
644km
Road conditions: 325km dirt roads, 319 tarred highway

What a glorious morning! All packed and ready to go.
Not even a recurring flat tire could dampen my spirit. It seemed the plug was failing and leaking air at a very slow rate. I pulled it and jammed in two ribbons instead of one. That seemed to do the trick.

Sunlight glistening off the damp pan.

Racing across the utterly flat landscape.

The turnoff to the airfield and racetrack were whatshisname broke a land speed record.

We left the pan behind and took yet another two-spoor track to the nearest road that would get us to Brandvlei. We had a long day ahead of us. We didn’t yet realise how long. Opening and closing a never ending number of gates did nothing to increase our speed but it did allow time to stretch the girls’ legs.

Brandvlei. A slow town where we served as the highlight of the week. Locals gathered round the bikes while Butch and Kaboef slurped on tinned spaghetti, purchased from a store with impossibly long aisles with limited choice in foodstuffs, watched over by whirring blades spinning the air high above.

From Brandvlei, it was on to Calvinia on a deadly boring, tarred road. Our backsides were stinging from days in the saddle and we stopped for a smoke whenever we saw a bit of shade alongside the road. The trees were graffitied by ages of travellers, bored by the same mind numbing road. The carvings proclaimed love and friendship in the most basic use of the alphabet, which poets have struggled to perfect to no apparent avail…

The 150km from Brandvlei to Calvinia seemed like 1500km. It just wouldn’t end! The landscapes, perhaps if done earlier on in the trip, would have been beautiful. We were just so tired that we lacked the necessary appreciation.
Had Ama ride ride been with us, we could perhaps have salvaged some humour but those sneaky Gautengers stole him away with more money and promise of a better future.

Calvinia – got mail?
Perhaps a coffee table book of all the largest manmade regular objects visited by motorcycle. Would you buy such a book? I’m ready to go look for them if you say yes.

We stayed in Calvinia long enough to sample the excellent sheep pies (no, not mutton pies) and toasted sandwiches at the 250mile café. According to them there were four destinations exactly 250miles away from Calvinia: Springbok, Ceres, Upington and, and, I forgot the other one…
Who can name the 5 bastions of the castle?

After filling up we tackled the great Ceres Karoo road. 208km of uninterrupted dirt road. Apparently the longest of its kind in the country.

It’s a wonderful road and I don’t understand why more people don’t ride it. But that’s okay, we liked it nice and quiet.

Below the pass, for the first 20km, there was slight flood damage that caused the GSs to bottom out occasionally. One riverbed stank of rotten flesh, the sure sign of a dead beast that met its end either from natural causes or drought. It’s a tough landscape for livestock to survive in.

Desolate landscape. Gotta love ‘em! The roads were covered in shale and powdery sand. Either our noses were clogged up or the surrounds were completely devoid of scent. Either way, motorcycling is the only way to truly experience the land in its truest form. Except maybe if you rode a bicycle or drove a cart…

From Ceres we went via Tulbach to Durbanville. We thought it would be quicker than Bainskloof Pass but forgot about the many road works. We had to wait about ten minutes at each waiting point, which was excruciating. There were glasses of warm sherry in Kriges Pub, calling our names, and we couldn’t get to them soon enough!

We got back to Kriges pub at around 19:00 and reminisced and reflected, hunkered over those long sought after glasses of Sedgwick’s Old Brown. From there we headed to our respective homes for a warm shower and a comfy bed.

Some GPS info:
Trip Moving time: 23hrs 51mins
Trip Stopped time: 17hrs 42mins
Trip Total time: 41hrs 33mins
Trip Odometer: 2035km
Max speed: 159km/h
Moving Average speed: 85.3km/h
Overall Average speed: 49.0km/h

Hereunder follows some close-ups of the riders. The girls don’t get their pics posted until they get bikes of their own.
But seriously, I’d like to thank my riding partners for an excellent trip and for being such great companions. I could travel around the world with them. And a special thank you for the ladies. I know they did not feature much in this report, but know that they were the glue that held it all together. Without them we would perhaps not even have gone on the trip, much less enjoyed it as much as we did.

Kaboef – Stealthy dwarf

Butch – Scheming warmonger

LuckyStriker – Oiled Adonis

Thank you, I am LuckyStriker and the last three photo comments are absolutely true. NOT!

Buffalo Rally 2007

2007-03-20T10:49:00.001+02:00

Hanging with the KLRs (a Buffalo Rally story)
16 - 18 March 2007

“That was my absolute last bike rally”
So goes the oath I make to myself every time I return from one. But when the 2007 Buffalo Rally came around I found myself packing my bike again.
Rallies are not bad experiences by any means …it’s just that I feel increasingly alienated from the leather-clad biker fraternity as time goes by and my love for dirt roads increase.

So I got in contact with Jan Taljaard on Thursday evening. He was on assignment in the Southern Cape and offered me a place to stay in George. Naturally I said yes.
On Friday morning I got a call from Hein Lorenzen. He wanted in on the trip too.
Thus the theme for the weekend was set. My trip would be shared with two near identical Kawasaki 650 KLRs ridden by mature but hard men. In keeping with the spirit of things* and respecting my fellow riders, I decided to shun expensive items and high technology. I left my camera equipment at home and pocketed only a 2megapixel cell phone. I left the GPS receiver in the drawer and packed a bottle of Three Ships whiskey which I bought on special at Ultra wholesalers. And finally, I decided to wear a crusty jean without a belt and did not bother to wash the bike before I departed.

*KLRs are known for their basic and inexpensive qualities...unlike the BMW brand which is the exact oposite.

Waiting for the KLR at the toll gate.

Hein and I met at the Toll plaza and zipped through to Worcester. We switched bikes and headed over to Swellendam. He has long tried to twist my arm to leave BMW and get a KLR. Humouring him with promises that I’d consider it became a regular pastime.

Riding the KLR was an interesting experience to say the least.
At speeds over the legal limit, the wind starts to squeeze your chest and pushes back your neck like when a fat aunt gives you a bear hug.
The Corbin seat was a treat (equalling the GS seat in comfort) but the vibrations coming up from the thumping phallus below me was felt through every limb of my body.
Hein claims the rhythmic vibrations become quite arousing after a time but the less said about that the better.
I must conclude my impressions of the KLR by saying this: You have to be of stern stuff to ride the world’s highways with a KLR. I only had a brief opportunity to ride it on gravel which is where the bike apparently comes into its own.
My respect to all KLR riders; I can see why the so called plaasbike receives your adoration.

Riding is thirsty work even for a KLR. This one needed a little oil top up.

From Swellendam we were back on our own bikes and blasted up the N2. We shared the road with a plethora of different types of bikes.
Superbikes shrieked past us like guided missiles tracking a distant target.
Scramblers barked painfully along on the emergency lane, too slow to keep up with the traffic.
Vintage bikes puttered melodiously as we passed them, their riders kitted in bomber jackets or skin tight leather and piss-pot helmets.
Tourers stood parked at every garage forecourt with the rider and pillion sipping coffee, they never seem to be in motion and simply appear miraculously in the next town as if beamed there.
And yes, Harleys squatted proud and low on their trailers pulled by Mercedes Benz. Their flatulent roar only heard in my mind, a memory of the last time a saw an ambulatory one in front of News Café.

With the late afternoon sun on our backs we entered Mosselbaai. The rally site could be seen from high up the bluff as we descended down to the beach. The ocean of tents and glittering chrome and glass from the bikes was most impressive.
We parked our machines near the railroad line and queued up to pay our entry fees. Jan made his appearance with cold beers to sooth our aching muscles. His motherly nature would surface frequently during the weekend. His wife would be proud if only she knew how responsible he really was.

Friday night was pretty good.
Badges and club colours proudly worn on leather vests.
Large knives hanging from scabbards, the spiked knuckle busters hanging from epaulettes.
Lewd catcalling whenever a sexy girl walked past.
Slurring attempts of swastika-labelled drunks to befriend you because you look kind of familiar.
Acrid grey smoke of melting rubber as another tyre is sacrificed to the rally gods.
Revving of bikes and the rapidly repeating attempts of the limiter to save the engine, alleviated only with a slow descent to more regular revolutions, although interrupted by the kill switch and spiked, blue-white flames shooting from the tailpipes.
A miss wet T-shirt contest where the lesbian contestants had the most fun.
A strip show where a young man was taken on stage and molested by a brazilian…
Little girls may be made from sugar and spice and all things nice but bikers are a concoction of 95 octane, rum, curry and CMA coffee.

We met several Wild Dog forum members like Clockwork Orange, Davey Sprocket, ChrisG, Uiltjie, Kat, Katoom, etc. (forgive me if missed anyone…my brain has a hole in it) and also famous Think Bike characters like Valdezugar, Scorp and Buccaneer.

Although we had originally planned to go to George and use Jan’s accommodation, Hein and I decided to use our tent instead. We reasoned that riding 50km in pitch blackness after quite a few rounds and still dealing with the lack of blood flow to the brain caused by the strip show would not be a good idea.

Midnight came round and we were feeling a little hungry. So we took the meat we acquired earlier from a biltong merchant to the nearest column of smoke. Our hosts were hesitant to accommodate us at first, but after some impressive negotiations done Red Indian style, Hein not only got them to share their coals but also their booze and they even threw in a guy to braai our chops and wors for us! All we had to do was chat to Lolla, a morbidly obese woman with a heart of gold and banshee like laughter.
This was part of my training in the ways of the KLR. Expect the maximum amount of payout for the minimum amount of input.

So some time during the wee hours we stumbled back to our camp with what remained of our 5litre box of white wine (it was the only alcohol we could purchase in sufficient quantity) and proceeded to rouse our neighbours. They were two fetching girls from Dispatch. We were convinced our big city bred worldly ways would impress them, and if that failed the offer of free wine must surely be a clincher!
It failed miserably although they did tease a little, which gave us hope. Hope enough for Hein to sleep outside the tent in anticipation of them joining us for a drink.
Not gonna happen!

We awoke the next morning with the typical sounds of a rally. Dawn is a time for bike revving and engine popping. I tried to sleep through the noise but De La Rey, De La Rey blasting from two tents away would not be denied!
Jan returned from George with orange juice, coffee and a stove on which to brew it. This man has my eternal thanks and respect. Had it not been for that thoughtful gesture I would surely have perished…
There were many piles of human misery strewn across the rally site. Heaps of corroded men clad in beer stained denim and leather. They would need more than coffee and orange juice to return life to their inanimate bodies. Only the hair of the dog would work for them.

Hein and Jan

The remainder of the morning was spent strolling around the rally site and trying to find familiar faces we missed the night before. **Leo, Excalibur…did you try to hide from us the previous night? We shook your tent (we think it was yours) and called out your names. Your neighbours seemed strangely unappreciative.**

Just after noon we broke down our camp and headed to town for a beer. Not much was going on. The police were quite strict and absolutely prohibited the customary craziness in town. By this time we had our fill of the rally. It’s great and all but sadly not really for us.
So off we went to George to invade Jan’s bungalow in a tourist resort.
Hein cooked up a fantastic dinner for very little money and we invited Johan (Trailrider) and his family over to join us.
We were a little tired of all the riding and drinking so Hein and I went off to our respective rooms and left Jan to play host.

We were on the road and heading home long before the first Church bells rang. 90% of our trip back was spent on incredible dirt roads. The Southern Cape is truly Dual Sport heaven.

Happy Birthday to Jan’s KLR – it just hit 40,000km

Herbertsdale

A very sad sight. Apparently a tent became untied and entered the rear wheel. The rider’s fiancé was riding pillion. Her leg got tangled up in the mess and she was dragged along the road for several metres.

Here is a quick list of the route should you wish to trace it on a map:
George to Groot Brakrivier via Blanco (dirt roads and passes)
Groot Brak to Herbertsdale (dirt)
Herbertsdale to Riversdale (dirt)
Riversdale to Heidelberg (dirt)
Heidelberg to Suurbraak (dirt)
Suurbraak to Robertson via Swellendam (tarred freeway and regional road)
Robertson to Rawsonville (dirt)
Rawsonville to homw (freeway)

GS vs. KLR – divergent philosophies – one goal

I could write for hours about the trip back but this report is about the ‘Buff’

Thank you. I am LuckyStriker and I don't personally know or know anyone who personally knows Ferdinand Rabi

A Pictorial Trip Report of the West Coast in Various Shades of Sepia

2007-02-26T01:47:00.000+02:00

Aka: APTRWCVSS
23 – 25 February 2007

We left home at 19:45 on Friday and headed up to Britania bay near Paternoster. After a fantastic weekend with friends at their holiday home we headed back to Cape Town via some interesting dirt roads. Just thought I’d share it with you.

Saturday afternoon. I turned down the suspension and lowered the seat so that Zanie could scoot around on her own. We really need to get her, her own bike soon.

Between Vredenburg and Velddrif is a dirt road that connects the R399 and the R27. Dead straight and rock hard with a layer of loose sand on top. One of those roads where you ride either 20km/h or a 120, anything in between feels disturbingly wobbly.

Where the R27 crosses the Saldanha/Sishen rail, is a small Spoornet service road. Nicely overgrown and fast surface. Private property - Permit required but not checked.

We tried to closely follow the Berg River by riding various farm roads. Most ended inside private land and we were obliged to turn around.

Farm roads

The road between Velddrif and Hopefield

Streets of Hopefield

NG Kerk, Hopefield

Fleeing Ostriches

We turned off the beaten path and went in search of the bridge Offroad Adventurer and his group recently visited.

Found it! Thank you Gregg for the map and directions

Berg River running it’s winding course to the Atlantic

Piketberg, Velddrif, Aurora, to the tar

Traffic

Gate. Close me and prove yourself

We revisited Goedverwacht. I came here a few weeks ago in search of Piet Skiet and wanted to show my wife the interesting little town.

Mission Dealer

Mission

Road between Moorreesburg and the R45 (not the R311). Fast gravel with one or two rutted, sandy patches.

The road between The R45 and Darling has the most interesting surface. Four mostly 3cm deep sand lanes divided by three 10cm deep sand middelmannetjies. Now and then the sand would get deeper and I would be forced to pick a less rutted surface. Crisscrossing the middelmannetjies is easy but getting the bike’s tail to stop wagging is not so easy.

‘ello there

Cow racing in Darling

The only thing better than Cow racing is of course cow surfing

They also offer nipple tuning for the less adventurous.

All the pics were taken by my darling wife on our compact digital. The photos were colour adjusted and cropped to better translate what we felt when riding across the nostalgic landscapes.

Route info: Britannia Bay to Cape Town
348km taking approximately 6hours (lots of stopping and wasting time…just the way we like it)

Stettynskloof, a Dam good Ride!

2007-02-18T03:40:00.000+02:00

I took a page out of Phil Crafford's book and decided to explore the surrounds instead of focussing only on epic long distance trips. I have wanted to go to Stettynskloof dam for a while now. My dad was one of the engineers who modernised the old dam in 1981 and I frequently accompanied him on site.
The memories collected by a child become colourful fantasies later in life and I became convinced that a secret, lush valley existed just over the mountain.

So I looked it up on GoogleEarth and cross referenced it with the internet. It seemed that the general public was not allowed into the kloof …but there is always a way around these things.

My wife Zanie phoned Rika (she of Baviaans fame) and got hold of Hans Dam’s phone number. Hand Dam is a giant of a man and the dam manager. He in turn put us in touch with the farmer who owns the lower part of the kloof. But I don’t want to get into a lot of useless detail so I’ll jump into the story and elaborate as I go along.

We raced over DuToitskloof pass. We overslept a little and needed to be in Rawsonville at 9:45 to meet the farmer who would personally unlock the coded gate for us.
The previous day, over the phone, he was initially not open to the idea of letting strangers run amok on his farm without paying for the privilege to stay in his upmarket cottages. Some gentle persuasion sorted things out though. He seemed impressed that my dad worked on the dam.

Over DuToitskloof pass’ neck and down to the mouth of the tunnel. Only once or twice have I ridden a bike through the tunnel. Both times had me almost suffocating in the CO2 fumes…and they expect you to pay the same toll as a car for that…no thanks!

We got to the locked gate just in time. It turned out there is a pedestrian gap next to the gate and the GS could just squeeze through. We waited for the farmer and had a brief chat. He was very friendly but we were again instructed not to leave the road and bother the paying clientele in their cottages or trout fishing beats.

The road was brilliant. It undulated up and down the valley side all along the Holsloot river. We formulated a theory about why the kloof is called Stettynskloof as opposed to be named after the river, which is the custom in South Africa. I suppose Holslootkloof is just too close to a profanity ;)

(with a little imagination it can be translated to anus-crack-cleavage

Another curiosity is that the mountain above the kloof is called Steynskop and a nearby farm, Steynskloof. We joked that when the original farmer was asked what the name of his farm was, he stuttered “Ste-ste-steynskloof” thus giving the inaccurate name of Stettynskloof.

Crazy… Someone must have uprooted this tree and decided to re-plant it upside down, just for the hell of it.

Majestic mountains and their beautiful peaks.

We are now deep into the kloof and out of the farmer’s land. The section from here on out belongs to the Department of Water Affairs and is managed by Cape Nature. Access is strictly controlled but permission easily obtained if you make the right phone call.

The slues overflow thing… I remember when the dam was opened in 1981, my dad took me to witness the demolition of the upper dam wall. Water filled up the new dam quickly and soon the torrent rushed over the overflow with a great roar. It was most impressive.
On this day the water level was considerably lower due to the dry summers and thirsty Rawsonville farms.

On the dam wall. It is an earthen retaining wall consisting mostly of blasted rock and forms part of a natural geographic feature of the mountains. We spied a hiking trail in the distance and decided to find out more about the route. Perhaps we will return in the future and walk it.

Dam wall. Below the dam wall lie the 5-house community of Stettynskloof. Naturally all the gardens are filled with flowers and emerald green lawns. No water restrictions here!

Dam!

Double damn!

After a little picnic we headed home again. All along the route snaked my dad’s pipeline of which he was so proud. I remember being much more impressed by the dam but he just shrugged it off and kept on trying to impress his 9year old son with tales of aquaduct engineering principals.

It’s a dangerous road and many a construction vehicle met its doom on the valley floor below.

Dwarsberg Trout Hideaway – these are one of the cottages for rent if you are affluent enough and into fly fishing.

Nice farm roads

Exiting the kloof and admiring the beautiful vineyards of Rawsonville. We took one particularly sandy track right through the vineyards just to spice up the ride.

We took a short detour to Goudini Spa. As a child I was always thrilled when we went to the spa for summer holidays. “Goudini”…it sounded Italian or something. It was the most exotic place a lad like me had ever dreamed of.
Notice the enormous text on the mountain. It used to be very fashionable to deface mountains with large clearings and painted rocks to spell out your town’s name.

We also stopped at the Dam Fine Café. Perhaps the Wild Dogs should come out here for a weekend. The camping facilities are great, the bar fantastic and a petting zoo and ponies for the kids.

And so we headed for home. Over Bainskloof pass and it’s rocky precipice. It is on this road where I first saw my dad give in to fury. We went for a family biking weekend and my mom rode pillion on my dad’s Honda CB750 while I held tightly onto oom Ellis on his Suzuki GT750 two stroke. He forgot all about me and raced over the mountain at breakneck speed. When my dad finally caught up with him, he beat him to a pulp, while I, a 7year old boy stood quivering on the edge of the road. I have never seen my dad as angry as that before or since.

View over the Boland. In the middle ground you can just make out the town of Wellington where I grew up…mostly…being a son of a civil engineer had me living all over the country.
I don’t complain about it. It is after all where I got my passion for travelling from. Thanks Dad!

But there is always time for a quick exploration of the many logging trails before leaving the pass behind.

The route

Thank you. I’m LuckyStriker and you just reminisced with me.

Searching for Piet Skiet

2007-02-04T03:23:00.000+02:00

2 – 4 February 2007

After much planning, five of us met at Albertos for a beer.

The young, attractive waitress had her hands full with Hein and Allan.

The 13:00 bus eventually left Durbanville almost 2hours late…

Christof on his 990

View over the Swartland from the Versveld pass.

Jan starts off the weekend with a tumble at the campsite

Braai …still early in the evening (no pics hereafter…what happens on the mountain stays on the mountain)

Our campsite the next day. Christo just joined the group

The kitchen and adjacent pool

The farms on top of the Piketberg. The surrounding barren plains below the mountain, forms a stark contrast.

Curious horse

The main road of the town of Goedverwag

Kids on the porch of the Mission Dealer

The Mission

Water powered mill

Mark Hardy arrived late Saturday afternoon. He promptly dropped his bike right in front of the inebriated group. Much to our delight.

Still early in the evening – embarrassing pics will not be posted

The winding curves of the Versveld pass and the dry Swartland below

Overnighting in a dark forest - Langkloof and Garden route

2006-12-23T11:47:00.000+02:00

Christmas was celebrated at the in-laws this year. Zanie wanted to ferry home her inheritance using her little Fiat bakkie whilst I desperately wanted to take the bike. So we compromised and loaded the bike on the Strada with the intention of using it at our destination and me riding back alone.

It was embarrassing to be seen with a perfectly serviceable bike on the back and I would divert my head every time a motorcycle came roaring past us. Looking back on it now, I should have tied a ribbon to the bike and acted as if it was my Christmas present!

My father-in-law lives in the town of Joubertina (pronounced You-bur-tina) where his family have farmed and schooled since before the dawn of time. Joubs-town is located in a region called the Langkloof or ‘long valley’. The area is exclusively agricultural, producing mostly apples and pears.

But I’ll skip the details and take you on some of the trails I rode instead.

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The neighbouring hamlet of Twee Rivieren (two rivers) has many quaint farmhouses with colourful villagers.

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After passing through Bokkie se boord (Bokkie’s orchard) where Santjie Strydom nearly froze to death last winter after her husband abandoned her, I came across several fantastic little tracks into the surrounding mountains. The fynbos had a strong scent and every time the bike brushed a bush the smell of tea would fill the air.

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A few kilometres behind the clubhouse where many a dispute has been resolved with the fist, lies the Diepkloof dam. It was a scorcher of a day and I rode the piano into the shallow waters for a cool down. Where the ochre clay suddenly shifted to black, I turned to avoid submerged trenches that could have swallowed the bike whole. Mostly the water was shallow enough not to flood my boots though. The snorkel I constructed earlier did its job when the engine disappeared briefly under the waters.

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The next day we loaded all the kids on the back of the Fiat promising them a real Christmas tree, chopped down in the old plantation. I scouted ahead with the bike to make sure the roads would be accessible for the bakkie. As you all know the camera fails to convey the steepness of an incline or descent.

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On the day before Christmas, Zanie and I took the looping Kouga road. It was a nice ride on a beautifully maintained dirt highway.

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Switchbacks carved up the valleys and mountains, passing through shallow rivers and wooded greens.

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We happened upon a farm where the petrol pump promised us R1.89 per litre. Time appeared to be standing still in the Kouga.

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The Kouga River snakes it’s way down a deep ravine parallel to the Langkloof, all the way into the Baviaanskloof from where it joins the Gamtoos River and empties itself into the sea near Jeffries Bay.

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Some locals enjoying the cool water of the Kouga. They hollered and waved frantically as we rode past and laughed with delight as Zanie took their picture in passing. Even though the temperature was ‘only’ in the low 30s, the humidity caused one to perspire constantly, making a supply of water on even a short trip very important.

We rode one last winding road that climbed out of the secret valley and crossed back over into the Langkloof.

And so we rode on to The Heights. So called because of a ridge that ends abruptly over the kloof giving us a marvellous view over the fertile lands of the Kromrivier valley below.

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Some of the trails had to be ridden carefully and respectfully. Loose rocks may cause you to spin the rear wheel madly if you are too heavy on the throttle. Not only do you risk your tyres, but you screw up the trail for others as well. Unfortunately the slow riding also meant we were cooking away in the heat of the sun. There are times when I hate ATGATT!

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From The Heights we decided to follow the railroad track all the way back to town. The narrow gauge track has not been used in several years and the service road has followed in its decay. Since lorries took over the transport market, The South African Railways has gone into steady decline.

My wife has the misfortune of celebrating her birthday the day after Christmas. Joubertina has very little in the way of entertainment, so we decided to go on a morning bike trip and check out some bushman paintings on a farm called Hoeree.
The route was quite terrible at times and I almost felt completely out of my depth. I managed to cope with this rather nasty piece of road without making my wife get off and walk…much to her consternation! At the end of our ride she showed me her hands. They were calloused from holding on so tight while the bikes bounded along the rocky roads.

Down in the narrow valley we explored the single track road and marvelled at the beauty of the cliffs around us. We saw several deer, antelope and other wildlife. A very special day!

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In one particularly sandy, river crossing the front wheel picked up a severed root and pulled it up and into the mudguard. At first I couldn’t understand what was going on as the bike slowed down rapidly and I began to lose my balance. As always my wife looked at me indignantly as she picked herself up and dusted off her clothing. The root was deeply wedged and it took several swearwords to get it out. Fortunately nothing was damaged or even scratched but Zanie burnt her hand on the hot headers trying to assist me.

We finally found the bushman paintings. These are not pre-historic and were made fairly recently during the early eighteenth century. Something that was curios though was the depiction of the large dog involved in the hunt. It seemed almost wolf-like and was pictured much larger than its nearby prey.

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Towering cliffs near the bushman caves. Originally the bushmen were classified into two tribes by anthropologists, The Khoi and the San. Today we know that the people of the Kalahari, the Karoo and the West coast were all one and the same (Khoisan) and the original inhabitants of Southern Africa.

Riding along the source of the Kouga River.

I wish I could explain how farkin steep this incline was. It just went on and on for what felt like an eternity. And to make matters worse, the surface was covered with loose rock the size of tennis balls. I had to tell Zanie to get off and follow on foot. There was no way I could handle the piano up that, with two of us on board.

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Derelict house. We left the farm and returned home to spend the remainder of Zanie’s birthday with her family.

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The next day at 11:00 I said my goodbyes to Zanie and the family. As intended, I left for home one day ahead of my wife. I planned to ride all the dirt roads I have not yet ridden from here to the Cape.
This road is called the Bo-Kouga road and takes you inland from the farm of Ongelegen to the small town of Avontuur on Route 62. The turnoff is a few metres before a permanent checkpoint scanning for illicit pork smugglers. A virulent epidemic is denying pig farmers from selling their product and to transport livestock out of the Langkloof.

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From Avontuur I headed south, down the R339 better known as the Prince Alfred Pass. An amazing road that hugs the Langkloof mountains, crosses innumerable streams and finally passes through the Knysna forest, my intended destination.

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This is luxury 4x4 country! Never have I seen such a large number of BMW X5, Range Rover, and Pajero outside of shopping mall parking lots. Now and again a clapped out Golf or Cortina would pass them, suggesting that they are still not as hardcore as they think they are.
Indeed, the Prince Alfred pass has a great surface and I was tempted to speed several times. My rear brake was red hot after a while as I threw out the anchor right before deceptively sharp turns.

Trout farm. They have fish.

I stopped at the small coffee shop in Die Vlug and asked the kind lady about the surrounding area. We spoke with interrupted pauses as she delivered tea to waiting customers. She told me of a forestry trail 20km down the road that was very popular with motorcyclists.
I wondered if it was the same trail that I spied on my paper map the day before. If it was, it would take me through the forests and plantations and spit me out beyond Knysna at De Hoek. I decided to give it a try.

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I rode those forestry tracks gawking at massive trees and dark alleys into overgrown gloom. Now and then I would exit the forest and enter a plantation. Some of the roads would be blocked with felled trees and I would have to turn around again. None of the roads were marked on my GPS map.

For hours I explored the hills riding through vast plains of mountain ferns and fynbos. Occasionally the road would fork and I’d descend into a valley of pine trees smelling fiercely of resin and ozone. The forest itself is not very old. In 1869 the ‘Great Fire’ swept through the area and burned all but a handful of deep valleys. Nearly all of the magnificent giants were destroyed and the forest today still has a long way to go before reaching its former glory.

Around 3 o’ clock I was riding on some really bizarre roads. They seemed to be edged by fist sized stones and sharpened branches. Some trouble has gone into ‘prettifying’ the roads, yet the odd ruin I came across every so often was clearly uninhabited. I had visions of inbred hillbillies watching me through the trees. Around any corner I would expect a wire strung neck height, neatly decapitating me to the freakish delight of squealing mutants.
“Yeeeeeeiii! We got us another one Pa!”

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Some of the trails defy description. They were so beautiful. The hippy in me almost emerged and made me cry like a little girl. A deep sigh of satisfaction was all I allowed myself every time I stopped to admire the lush green flora.

My bike was really impressing me. So far it had handled anything we stumbled upon and it did it while still looking great! What more could you ask of a machine?

Zanie packed me a small amount of courage. 250ml Snake Bite rode behind me in the camera bag. When things looked a bit hairy and I could actually risk stopping the bike, I would take a small swig and press on with this manly work. The work called: riding a bike…

On two occasions did I lose the whiskey and had to turn around to look for it. I was concerned that I would spend the night on these paths without a drop of courage to steel me against the creepy midnight noises.

Isn’t she pretty?! I’m glad I fitted knobblies the second time round. They may not last very long but they sure make riding dirt roads a pleasure.

Yet another road blocked by something. Fortunately this tree trunk was relatively easy to drag out of the way.

I was having some difficulty finding the road that would take me to Die Hoek. All the trails either ended at locked gates, fallen trees, impassable erosions or simply headed off into completely the wrong direction.

The sun was starting to head to the horizon and I decided to rather make my way back to the Prince Alfred pass and down to Knysna to re-supply on Snake Bite.

I spied a trail that wound its way down to the previously impassable ravine of the Kruis River and decided to take it. If I could cross that river it would save me from back tracking hours spent on the forestry roads thus far.

The trail down to the river was steep. Quite steep! In first gear the bike hurtled down the path at too fast a speed. I needed to dodge various hazards like erosion, roots and rocks. Locking up the rear brake helped very little. The shaft drive shuddered noisily as the back wheel bounced around. I was descending at an alarming pace and all I could do was hold on for dear life. Putting my feet out would be a very, very bad idea…

Mercifully I safely neared bottom of the ravine. The bike slowed down as the angle of the trail eased off. Ahead of me was a track going up an equally steep incline. I took what I thought would be the last picture of me with intact skull and functioning limbs. I hopped on the bike and raced up the hill with what I am sure was a huge spray of dirt and rock trailing behind me. The climb lasted nearly a kilometre of which the last 400metres was thankfully a bit more relaxing… Until I hit a nasty eroded crag. I quickly put my foot out to stop me from falling over and the bike jerked violently at the same time. The left side engine pod rammed into my shin and I grimaced in pain. Never mind, let’s continue.

I found the road back to the pass in no time at all. Just one snag; there was a gate and it was locked. I stood there watching those luxury 4X4s pass me by and felt like murdering something. I would have to go back all the way to where I entered the trails several hours ago.

Fortunately there was a nearby quarry that bordered on both the logging trails and the pass. The fence was down in parts and all I had to do was race up the steep wall of the quarry and through some bushes without smashing into the fence posts or snagging the downed barbed wire.
There was no point in standing around debating it with myself and I got on the bike and did it.
Success! Easier than I had expected.
I took a picture but there is no point posting it. It looks spectacularly unimpressive and will just make you people laugh at me.

So back on the Prince Alfred pass I stopped at the King Edward VII tree and considered some spots to camp for the night. Since it is illegal to camp here I needed to find somewhere out of sight and far from any parks staff. This was not the ideal place…

Instead of continuing on to Concordia with the pass I slipped west onto the George Rex road to Gouna.

Along the way I found another potentially suitable spot to camp near Rooihuis.

After reaching Gouna I had made up my mind to ride to Millwood Forrest instead. I had been there a few years ago and remembered it being quite secluded and beautiful.

So I rode into town and stopped at the Knysna Spar. I was by this time quite muddy, dusty and sweaty and leered at as if I was some dangerous insect as I strolled the isles among the soccer moms in their Daniel Hechter sweaters.

I now had a half-jack Bells, half-jack OBS, smokes, buns, cheese, ham and a small bag of biltong I got for Christmas. Off I went to find some place to lay my head. I briefly considered shacking up with BoJangles for the night but decided to spare her the humiliation of having to think up some excuse to keep me away from her. Property values are known to drop when I visit friends in their upper-class neighbourhoods.

I entered Millwood and rode past the toll booth and staff houses without being stopped. It was well past 7 in the evening. At the tea room the last tourists were getting in their cars to head back to their guesthouses. Hikers looked in my direction as I rode past their mountain hut and the nearby graveyard.

I passed by the old goldmine and turned down a road which had a huge no-entry sign posted. On and on I rode until could no longer see any sign of humans and their dominion.

Once I took a wrong fork and had to turn back. The road was washed away and the two metre wide tear in the road could not be crossed before dark.
Finally, with the sun already well below the horizon, I found the perfect spot.

Near the bottom of a narrow valley was a small clearing with my name on it. I parked the bike on the second flattest piece of ground I could find (the flattest reserved for me of course) and surveyed the area. Next to my bed was the edge of a dark chasm, almost a full storey down. I could just make out a brook flowing into the dim forest below me.
To the other side was an upward slope overgrown with creaking trees and whispering ferns. The dark shape of the hill loomed over me and the canopy of the trees allowed me only a small glimpse of the grey sky and its dying light.

I unpacked and made my bed. I had decided not to bring my tent along on this trip. It was summer after all! Instead I stuffed my sleeping bag into my bivoac and set everything down on the self inflating mattress and tarpaulin.
It was after eight when I had finished and the light had gone. Incredibly my cell phone had a signal. One bar only but when I stood just so and touched the bike just there the signal jumped up another bar. I phoned my wife to tell her where I was and that I loved her.

Images of the Blair Witch started to creep into my mind. Damn my active imagination! I phoned Butch, just to hear a human voice. Fortunately I had enough booze and cigarettes.

After finishing my dinner I crawled into bed.
What was that…? Something was watching me from the trees. It had glowing eyes and it moved slowly towards me!

Fireflies!

Soon my little clearing was glowing with them. Hundreds of tiny little lights winked on and off all around me. It was magical and I sighed deeply and gave a smile three miles wide!
But just as soon as they appeared they were gone again.
A faint drizzle started to fall on my face.

I quickly got up and pulled the tarp from under the mattress. I rigged it as a lean-to between the bike and the trees on the edge of the precipice.
After tying it down as best I could, I got back into bed… and not a moment too soon. The skies opened up and the water roared down around me.
Oh dear…

The next morning.
Fortunately the torrent didn’t last very long. It drizzled throughout the night though and the ground was turned into a marshland.
The tarp and bivvy bag had kept me dry and with all my gear stowed in the Ortlieb bag, I had nothing to complain about. The rain had also supplied me with a white noise that lulled me to sleep rather quickly.
I had a great night and was up at 5 feeling invigorated!

I packed up and left that wet valley behind with both a sense of loss and relief. Very strange feeling indeed.

The trip home seemed to take forever. I didn’t want to skimp on the journey and made the best of this opportunity to explore my country.

So I rode the seven passes road to George. What a wonderful road – of which the Homtini pass is probably the best one.

View over the forest

Hoogekraal Pass – on the Passes road

The old Knysna-George road was closed off with a warning sign. I decided to circumvent the barrier and ride it anyway. The road was in perfect order despite the warnings. My guess is they want to keep heavy traffic off it perhaps due to flood damage to the historic bridges.

The passes road was competed in 1883. The road was engineered by that famous road builder Thomas Geddes Bain and his brother-in-law Adam de Smidt. Bains later compared all his following projects to the Passes Road when it came to difficulty. He was heard to remark on another difficult pass: “the fearful ruggedness outstrips even that between George and Knysna, and that is saying enough …”

And then it was on to the Montagu Pass. A fantastic feat of engineering and a brilliant ride. In the above pic you can see the new and improved Outeniqua pass which has replaced it.

I’ll try not to speak and let you enjoy the pics instead.

In this pic you can see the railway line (top left), the Montagu pass (bottom left) and the Outeniqua pass (background)

A fourth pass is barely visible (not in this pic) from time to time. It is the old wagon route but it’s almost completely gone now or incorporated into the railroad line.

Railroad bridge
Construction of the Montagu pass began in 1844 and completed in 1847. A small town named Whitesville grew up overnight to accommodate the work force. The town was so named in honour of the Australian engineer named Henry Fancourt White. The bashful White begged them to change it and the town became known as Blanco.
The pass is 10km in length and reduced the travelling time for ox-drawn wagons from three weeks to three hours!!
In 1972 the pass was declared a national monument and is currently the most unaltered pass in the country.

In Oudshoorn I made a point of stopping at the gates of my old army base; Infantry School (also known as fafa school)

At De Hoop I stopped by this beautiful stone church. The town is dying and it won’t be long before everyone has moved on…

Fed up with riding the R62, I took a detour along the parallel Nooitgedacht road. An incredibly boring cement road that you really don’t want to ride at night!
Apparently, in the dead of night, a farmer is sometimes seen on the road next to his broken down bakkie. As soon as you draw close to him he falls under your wheel, causing your car to bump over the body. But when you stop to investigate, the corpse and the bakkie have vanished. What follows then is a loud disembodied moan that echoes across the landscape, guaranteed to send shivers down your spine. You have been warned!

S33 29 07.5 E21 27 32.6
The Amalienstein Lutheren Mission at Zoar.

I got tired of the R62 again and took a looping farm road outside Calitzdorp. These obscure roads can be quite interesting at times and well worth the trouble to explore them.

Outside Barrydale I abandoned the R62 once again and took the Tradouws Pass to Swellendam, planning to take the N2 home. But the holiday traffic was horrendous and I feared for my life on at least one occasion when a road hog cut me up. After 5minutes/11km spent on the N2 I was convinced to get off it quickly and head north again..

So I rode to Worcester along the R60 and then onto the N1. After the relaxing sweeps of Du Toitskloof Pass, I joined the throng of motorists on the highway before taking my exit ramp and on to home.

When I undressed for a much anticipated shower I had the first opportunity to inspect my shin which had been hurting since banging it against the engine. Just above the boot line was a big blue welt. Three mysterious red lines crossed the funny looking bruise… the air cooling flanges had apparently imprinted themselves on my leg! The fact that I now walk without pain tells me that it’s nothing to worry about.

That night the forest remained in my head. It left an impression that I couldn’t shake and I can still smell the wet muskiness of the rotting leaves and dark smell of the earth right now as I type this trip report.

Thank you. I am LuckyStriker and I fought someone on New Years Eve.