It's 6:30pm on Christmas night and I'm sitting on a bright orange plane, bound for Johannesburg and a few days of motorcycle bliss. It is quite an achievement to have reached this point! So far I've had to do all sorts of amazing political maneuvering to have danced around my wife's abiding disapproval of motorbikes; everyones disgust at my deserting my family on Christmas day; twelve phone conversations with SA's newest budget airline, who seemed to be very reluctant to receive payment for the flight I'm on; overcoming a lack of bike and the fact that my gear is all ten years old. To top it all off, getting through airport security with a helmet in hand raised airport security and blood pressure several notches. After all this nonsense the idea of hammering along dirt roads in and around Lesotho for a few days is very attractive.
Rumours that the legendary Sani Pass is to be tarred in the very near future has prompted a local adventure outfit, Blue Gravity, to organise a biking trip, which has been dubbed the “”Sani Sonder Backup Tour” because, you guessed it, there won't be any backup. One of the original participants was unfortunate enough to break her neck in a paragliding accident, but lucky enough to survive the incident; and I, inadvertently, benefited from the mishap by being invited to fill her spot. The plan is to do a round trip from Johannesburg, through to Lesotho, and back to Johannesburg via another route. It has been a year or two since I have done anything vaguely adventurous and I'm anticipating that this trip will quell the little adrenaline beast inside me that needs feeding from time to time. Hopefully without breaking my neck. Granted, this isn't the Paris Dakar, so my chances of survival are good, but then again, the Dakar has backup.
An hour later after having watched the plane's wings flapping and bouncing through a stormy sky, I land at the newly named O.R. Tambo airport feeling distinctly nauseous but glad to be alive. I collect my baggage, meet my brother and his family, who have braved the weather and deserted Christmas streets to fetch me, and am ferried off to the 'headquarters' of BlueGravity in Midrand. Kevin Storie, owner of BlueGravity, trip organiser and leader welcomes me and immediately shows me through to the Kawasaki KLR650, his own bike, which he is lending me for the adventure. He helps me efficiently and effectively pack and load my gear onto the green machine and my education begins with some bedtime reading. Kevin has drafted an amazingly compact adventure riding manual covering everything from selecting your bike to crash statistics, packing, road positioning, overcoming obstacles, what to do to survive overland adventures and how to leap whole continents in a single bound. “Read quickly” he grins, “we're getting up early”! I have to question the sanity of anyone who trusts me with their motorcycle, but Kevin's CV is impressive. What gives me most confidence is his undeniable experience in solo adventure riding through Europe, The Middle East and Africa. I have never met anyone else who has crossed the Sahara (the dangerous route mind you!) alone. His book is practical too, and I find myself referring back to it in my mind many times over the forthcoming days. In just a few pages I find at least 3 bad riding habits I have that are going to have to change if I am to extend my survival.
'Boxing Day' dawns and finds the two of us heading off to the BP Station in Edenvale. The bike feels good beneath me and I impress myself with how quickly I pick it all up again after my long absence; “just like falling off a bike” Kevin teases me later. We arrive at the rendezvous point, fill tanks and meet the rest of our party. Petrus, who has left live mine (yes, the type that explode) clearing in the Sudan to join us on his virtually new BMW 1200 GS; Robin hang glider and IT expert on his one year older Beemer; and Gerhardt who will be putting his XT 660X supermotard in slicks to the test, is one of the funniest guys I've ever met and, judging from his tire choice is either very brave or very optimistic, join Kevin on a Kawasaki KLE500 and I. Kevin gives a quick briefing, hands out documentation for us to sign, distributes manuals and confirms that we all have our necessary passports and paperwork. With that done we agree on a riding plan and a scheduled breakfast stop and we're off.
Immediately I'm impressed by the exaggerated lifesaver checks, indication, and road positioning Kevin adopts, drilling into all of us the good safety routines which set the tone for the rest of the trip. “Adventure biking is about having as much fun as possible while at the same ensuring that you and your bike are in good enough condition to enjoy the next leg” Kevin had told me. Like the book cover said, “survival”. We're moving quickly, but I feel within my bounds of capability. All of that is about to change. Vereeniging, and Heilbron pass and we're onto dirt road. At this point I must make a confession; the sum total of my dirt riding experience is limited to mountain bike riding. Instantly I am wishing we are riding 20kph slower and am feeling waaaay out of my depth. One kay later I feel my instincts kicking in and am thinking, “Hey. I can do this”. Two kilometers after that I take a sharpish corner on thick sand and have flashbacks to my youth when I dived headfirst through the windshield of my brothers 400cc after a sudden meeting with a verge. That was close! I had gotten too cocky, too quickly! Reviewing Kevin's book in my head I know exactly what I did wrong with my weight, with my positioning in the road and pretty much everything. Freezing up didn't help either. I find myself repeating certain mantras under my breath to keep my head in the game until the actions become habit.
Petrus Steyn, Bethlehem, breakfast and a couple of wrong turns later and we're on the back roads through to Golden Gate via a less known route more commonly used by the 4x4 fraternity. The scenery is already breathtaking with the typical Freestate sandstone koppies and waving golden grass. I really am beginning to feel the free spirit that used to be a permanent companion, rekindle somewhere deep in my chest. We stop only to pick up a wayward number plate dropped by the KLE and to photograph each other doing a shallow water crossing. From there we are back onto the tar and up the fantastic winding curves leading to the Golden Gate. Here we get the opportunity to put the Blue Gravity road positioning tips into practice, and I get the chance to wear some of the rubber off the side walls of the tires of the KLR. I am just getting comfortable with the corners when, during a momentary lapse of concentration, I revert to old habits putting myself in the gravel on the outside of a curve and almost losing it. I've read that the KLR is a pretty much average performer all round, handling most things satisfactorily be it road or off road. This is it's appeal, but at the same time it's biggest point of criticism. People say it doesn't do anything well. I dispute this. Despite it's height, it takes corners like a demon. Minutes later we are putting up tents in the campsite feeling quite chuffed with ourselves. We discover why Robin's GS looks so much lighter packed than Petrus's bike. Robin has the cloths on his back, his tent and a sleeping bag. Petrus has, aside from tent and sleeping bag, enough food to feed Mokhotlong for a week; lights; multiple changes of cloths; monster camera, tripods and even a chair! I think he owns every adventure biking accessory ever made, and decided to bring them all with. After Kevin shows me how to give the bike a once-over to make sure everything is as it should be the afternoon is spent over a beer or two in the picturesque village of Clarens talking about bikes, trips and past adventures, and that night we talk rubbish and tell bad jokes around the campfire, interrupted only by minute steaks and Petrus's red wine boiled boerewors, which looks scary, tastes 'interesting' and is complimented politely.
The next day starts with an electrical issue on the KLR. The offroad activities of the day before have loosened one of the battery connections, which was ironically not easily checked the day before because checking battery connections on the KLR, as I discover, involves dismantling half the bike. As rain begins to fall we shift the bike under a campsite thatch lapa to work on. Call the maintenance issue Divine Providence. No sooner have we moved under the shelter than the heavens open and the valley is drenched in one of the fiercest deluges I have ever witnessed. In minutes the cliffs around us are transformed into massive waterfalls. It feels like we are in the middle of Niagra Falls. Goosebump stuff! The collapse of a willow tree a few meters away, almost dumping a few tons of firewood onto a parked Corolla, signal that it's time to leave.
An excellent breakfast in Clarens, a refuel and we're off. An old whitewater kayaking nickname of mine, 'Raging Green Banana', has reared it's ugly head, for no other reason than that my bright yellow rain suit clashes wonderfully with the luminescent green of the Kawasaki and my bright red helmet. I bear jibes about my road visibility, how farmers are going to be running me off the road as a result of being blinded by the sight of me, and how I will appeal to the dagga smoking reggae fans in Lesotho. All I will say is that the kids on the side of the road loved it, only one child threw stones at me in Lesotho; and probably only because my colours frightened his sheep.
Now I'm not sure whether it is a South African plot to keep us out of Lesotho, but there is no, I repeat, no signage indicating that the turnoff to Caledonspoort Border Post is in fact a road to another country. As a result, and because I am leading at this point we are half way to the Karoo before Kevin manages to head us off and lead us back to the border. Our documentation is presented, duly ignored by both countries officials and we are across the border and into the Mountain Kingdom. Our bikes get their first taste of Lesotho fuel at Butha Butha while we restrain ourselves from buying the barrel of apricots that a very determined entrepreneur is pressing on us regardless of the fact that none of us could possibly carry that volume of fruit. As we head up the incredible curves of the pass en route to Oxbow I marvel at the incredible scenery. It's been a while since I was last in Lesotho, but this time there seemed to be a lot more water around. Everywhere I look are foaming blue and white rivers, waterfalls plunging down roadside cliffs, green hills and fat cows adorned with bells. It's like an African version of the Alps! I'm so busy soaking up the view that I only narrowly miss a sheep which bolts down a bank into the road. The bikers behind me display their superior biking skills by avoiding a now throughly startled animal on a road literally carved into a cliff without missing a beat. These lads know how to handle a bike!
A kay up the road we pull over at a viewpoint looking down into a vast valley system. Behind us a waterfall spills from a cliff into a pool, mere meters away. We grin at each other like school kids. The day is only just beginning and we're in a new country, weaving through the curves and livestock and watching passports with their photos torn out, the result of some theft no doubt, flutter around our feet. This is fun!
Owbow, and Tlaeng Pass, the highest motorable pass in Africa supposedly, pass by in no time at all. A few stops occur until we hit Mokhotlong, mostly for me to perve at the awesome rapids we were passing by in the swollen rivers. Here we are in search of fuel. Some of the smaller bikes with tiny tanks are very much in need of a top up before we take on the next 60 km dirt to Sani. Unfortunately the town is in the grips of a fuel drought and after fruitlessly visiting several better and lesser known refueling points we decide to chance it, knowing that we can always siphon from the BMWs or the KLR if needed. The dirt road between Mokhotlong and Sani Pass is good clean fun on a bike. Although described as a strictly 4x4 road, a carefully driven two wheel drive could probably negotiate it without too much issue. Four wheel drive minibus taxis do it all the time. This road however was designed for playing on a bike! The road was still wet from the rain, and the mud, shallow river crossings, a little scrambling around in loose rock and some long hard stretches to blast along offered a nice range to experiment with. The river crossings get progressively deeper as a result of the heavy rainfall we could see happening on the peaks around us, but we all manage the crossings without any real difficulty. By the time we reach the notorious Black Mountain, a Roof of Africa landmark I am told, I'm feeling cocky again; cocky enough to lead the troops down the washed out and rutted boulder garden. My inexperience catches up with me and after sliding front and back into a deep rutt created by serious runoff I narrowly escape dropping the bike by unintentionally doing all the right things; but not before discovering why motorcross boots are knee high and have steel toe reinforcing. I'm wearing hiking boots. My foot will be bruised for weeks. The laughter from the rest of the crew spurs me on to hammer the last stretch to the highest pub in Africa, and we reach there with me feeling like a hero.
We camp on the rocky ground near the backpackers. Dinner and drinks at the top of the world is pleasant, but very expensive. Ten bucks for a cup of instant coffee hurts, but I suppose we're paying a premium for the view, which is spectacular. The pass snakes away down below us for miles, twisting and turning back on itself. We retire to our tents after a tasty meal of lamb curry, which the lodge staff implies contains mostly ice rat, a large, short tailed rodent which can be seen in abundance on the escarpment. The night is chilly, as expected, but we all sleep soundly, except for Gerhard who feels cold enough in his old SADF issue sleeping bag inner to find his way into Petrus' tent. What are brothers for? Next morning the two of them took a stroll in their sleeping bags for a couple kays to the edge of the escarpment to view the sunrise, much to the amusement of the local shepherds. As Kevin pointed out later, the brother's likely set new fashion trends in a land where the blanket is traditional clothing. The sunrise was, by all accounts a stunning sight typical of the berg; massive red African sun with the world below covered in a duvet of cloud. The morning of the last day of the trip sees the Sani staff provide all sorts of emotive and horribly inaccurate data about how bad the pass is and how many people they watch crash while we wait for the border post to open. Even having driven up and down Sani many times I am left wondering whether their has been some dramatic deterioration in the road.The lads who have never seen Sani Pass before are a little worried.
Needless to say, the pass was exciting enough, but hadn't deteriorated, and either the chaps running the lodge were having fun winding us up, or they simply don't know what they are talking about. That having been said, there are still some challenges over the rocky and washed out sections of the road, particularly for the heavier bikes, and I for one drop my bike when I stall in one of the rockier sections of a hairpin bend, catching it just before I hit the dirt. We all make it down without real incident but with plenty of pauses to enjoy the view, grin like maniacs at each other and watch each other negotiate some of the trickier sections. As we get lower down we pass hordes of quads and 4x4s making their way up the pass. I am struck by how many children and people wearing really inappropriate clothing are on the quads. Maybe it's my inner parent making himself heard, or possibly I am being overly dramatic, but I think someone's going to get sued when a little girl someday hits throttle instead of break and takes a shortcut down the pass wearing nothing more than a bikini top, shorts, shoes and sunglasses.
By the time we've picked our way down the pass the XT and KLE are into reserve having traveled over 300km and Kev is making jibes about the tour being an offroad economy run.
Breakfast and fuel in Himeville is followed by a run for Bergville via the backroads. We get lots of pleasure chasing each other on dirt roads through the curves, detours and straights of the Drakensberg foothills and farmland as we take turns leading. I am struck again by the beauty of the Mpendle valley as we twist high above the meandering Umkomaas under sandstone cliffs and unsullied bushveld. This is really a under-experienced section of KwaZulu Natal.
We arrived at the Amphitheater Backpackers that afternoon, weary, dusty and completely stoked to be greeted by lsignificant others who had specially made the trip to spend the night and provide us with cold beers. It may have been the exhaustion of doing 1400km, of largely dirt roads in three days, but the location seemed like an oasis. Cold clear pool, incredible view, brilliant pork ribs, fantastic company and comfy beds all seemed to have an extra special something about them.The view from the campsite was the perfect finale to my portion of the trip. Sitting outside my tent I could see the Central to Northern Berg stretched out in one massive panorama in a 270 degree radius around me. I felt humbled by the vista and yet at the same time disproportionately proud that we had traversed the range the day before. I can only imagine how inflated one's ego must get after having conquered Africa on bike alone. How does Kevin stay so humble? Realistically I know that we didn't achieve anything spectacular; that bikers do what we did every day and much, much more. But, what I can say with confidence is that this trip was a beautiful introduction to adventure biking. I am a convert! Just how much of a convert only sank in as I watched Kev ride off on what had become my KLR. I found myself fervently hoping that Vicky, Kevs sister over from the UK, would suddenly turn around and decide she didn't feel like the ride back. I would of course offer to ride the bike she was on back to Midrand for her. Via the Eastern Cape!
Every now and again I look at the photo a special lady with a broken neck took of me hugging a muddy, bright green Kawasaki KLR 650, and sigh as though I've lost something special in my life. But I know it's only temporary. We have fantastic opportunities right in our own back yard, and there is no way in hell that I'm waiting another ten years to experience that feeling again!
