Terror turns to rage, learning and Covid
Terror is followed by rage.
From the very start to Die Hel, I was screwed. A 50mm drywall screw, to be exact. After a 460km day of hammering and yammering across the Eastern and Western Cape hilly desert, we began our 43km descent to the iconic symbol of magnificent isolation, where a community had survived alone for generations.
Die Hel.
Yes, but if they were so keen on wanting to be alone, how the hell did they persuade the architects of separation to cut this zany over-the-edge road? Apparently, Piet Swanepoel s Afrikaner Kloovers farming community set up in the 1830s, survived to the 1950s and begged the government for this road, which took two years to finish in 1962, and led to the exodus of younger generations and the end of the community.
The San were there first, but somewhat typically we don t know what happened to
’ them when Swannie arrived.
Someone must have counted the seemingly unending bends (actually, 30), a number of them straight-up hairpins (or down since in is the only way out), probably a vertigo-stricken front-seat passenger wondering if this was the one which would send them over the slim edge into oblivion.
We, the three ou bal Pootler trio and the younger Poot, a 32nd finisher in the pro class of the Roof of Africa when he was barely 20, hit the trail at 5.30am from Makhanda.
Delores s troubles started on the R400
’
(R4-ever!) on Addo s northern border where smashing corrugations snapped a few of her by now many cable ties.
I stopped for running repairs when the KLR s left fairings started to jounce and
’ droop. Put my boot down to kick out the side stand, and found fresh air! Gone, thrown off and away by the forces of demonic, cosmic fury.
Onwards! Ticking off Steytlerville, Willowmore, and coming into the base of the Swartberg Pass through a secret garden route in the mountains, the Oudemuragie which can be done in an old four-legged sedan. Bucket list. (Heard it here first né?)
Ground our way up the Swartberg to the turn-off on top of the world. We might make our CapeNature cottage by closing time, said our venerable leader, Big Dom, and pootled off with the others over the hill.
Gone to Hell,” I muttered as dear Delores “came to a wubbbeldy-wubbeldy halt, her rear takkie as flet as n pannekoek.
‘
As I got her up on the centre-stand, with rocks underfoot so as to allow the tyre to be removed, I put the paffy keyboard hands to work. The air went from still to howling. A dusty devil chilling the bones.
I cranked upmy earworm, and to the upbeat ska tune of Stand down Margaret (Thatcher) by The Beat, got the wheel off and found the drywall screw. Donner und bliksem! The sludge in the tube did not want to do its job and, as I got to the truly kak and lonely business of getting the tyre off the bead ”, Jammin appeared, followed by young Josh.
The calvary got on it and soon we were on our way to see what the Devil had in store for us. Marbles, sand traps, water splooshings, and, by the time we reached Gammkas Kloof campsite, we were done.
What joy awaited us. A perfectly renovated and curated four-bedroomed porzie for only R250 each. What a deal!
Jammin decided to pay homage to the little people of the past (no growth hormones in their food) and bashed his head repeatedly on the top of his bedroom door frame. But the baljaaring carried on underpinned by the knowing that tomorrow we d do it all again, in reverse.
The sun rose, washing down the valley hot and clear as we thundered out through a forest of gnarled charcoal, the remnants of a terrible bush fire. As we started up the hairy, airy climbs, my arms suddenly felt hollow, my pulse raced, the bike felt off balance.
The moment of terror arrived on the worst section, steep, rubble-strewn and cambering downwards and over the edge. I lost my line, drifted to the outer spoor and made a dangerous attempt to cross the middle mannetjie, and then shut it all down.
Clutch in, engine in a useless idle, poised between this world and the next. A moment of dread, shock and dispair. But f****t, if you want to live, then you need to do something.
I steadied my glorious, valiant steed, leant on the accelerator, looked to the horizon and dug fresh rubber into the earth as we gouged our way out of there. The stab of adrenaline, and a lot of helmet cursing, seemed to revivemy co-ords and then Jammin came to my rescue, riding behind me, a gentle rescue dawg, keeping an eye out, keeping it moving.
I knew there was loose canon-ball stuff ahead and as we got there a red mist of rage fell. I found myself in full attack mode, up on the pegs feet apart, arms relaxed to allow the front knobbly to find its footing, with no stiff, white-knuckle interference, occasionally grasping the tank with my knees to steady the ship.
I was furious, but riding the machine to my max, while allowing it to do its KLR thing.
Delores ’ s troubles started on the R400 (R4-ever!) on Addo ’ s northern border where smashing corrugations snapped a few of her by now many cable ties. I stopped for running repairs when the KLR ’ s left fairings started to jounce and droop
As we pulled up at the end, with dreams of coffee in our head at Prince Albert 20km down the hill, Jammin noted how wild I had been, with my luggage leaping up and down.
I quickly checked — jirrie! No bolt holding one side of the rack to the bike! But R3 later, I put in a new bolt bought from the local co-op and we were headed to Koedoeskloof, our awesome, curated, genteel, blues bar and guest house run by Eugene and Debbie, under the towering gaze of Towerkop.
* Two days later the author fell ill and tested positive for Covid-19 in Cape Town.