ON A HONDA CBR 1000 AND A NINJA 750 - 2 600 KM

Our planned trip to Kuruman became a reality 2 weeks before Xmas – the day Theo’s leave was finally approved. Until then I’d crossed my fingers, waiting and hoping and we suddenly found ourselves rushing around making checklists and consulting maps and realized we needed to get hold of and fit a top box onto Theo’s bike in a hurry. 20 Years ago we would have grabbed a clean set of underwear and set off into the sunset but these days sensibility, or was it senility, took over (oddly, the rest of my family still think we fly by the seat of our pants). We grabbed the magnifying glass and rushed into the spare room to plot our route on the wall map.

We are not at the geriatric stage yet but it was the only map we could find after turning the house upside down, but anyway the road from Cape Town to Kuruman looked more exciting stretched across the spare room wall. More importantly there’s a fridge with cold beers in the spare room. Our antiquated map didn’t indicate whether roads were dirt or tar, which poses a problem if you’re on road bikes. I wondered if places like Grikquastad still existed or whether they had camping places preferably with a pool and or shady trees. I scanned the internet and made a few phone calls to Theo’s brother, Herman, who lived in Kuruman and who was the cause of our mad decision to go there in the middle of December in the first place.

We were expecting extreme heat but when we found out that the temperature at night was 35 deg Cel (great, leave the sleeping bags behind I thought) and combined with the fact that sites on the net advised against drinking beer but rather lots of water in case of dehydration. I started wondering if perhaps a trip to the Northern Cape in December in leathers was a good idea. Oh well, it was too late to go to Knysna and I wasn’t into all those tourists anyway.

2 Days before Xmas our friend invited us on a breakfast run and I almost turned him down just in case something happened to the bikes. You never know, anything could go wrong. We went anyway and I took it easy. Well, except the last bit on our way back when some dude in a bakkie wanted to dice me down Durban Road. Hmpf. Xmas day arrived and we spent it with the fandamily which was lovely except for one minor mishap. I slipped on the kitchen floor and broke my fall on a chair and cracked a rib. Just frigging great! That’s what you get for boding ill fortune. The pain got worse as the day wore on. The bikes were packed for a early departure next morning but I could barely roll out of bed on the 26th. Theo laughed and offered to send me fotos. Oh well, no pain no gain.

Riding my bike was actually ok so long as I avoided potholes and bumps. Hit a massive swarm of flies outside Durbanville and I was happy I didn’t ride a cruiser with a bandana separating my face and fly paste. Stopped in Citrusdal for water and I couldn’t resist a cold beer. Through Niewoudsville and on to Calvinia making a total of 480 km the first day. Good going. We camped at a nice small place (backyard of a B&B actually and 1 000 times better than the dried up sandy municipal park) and we were the only people there so no one heard my moans and groans each time I got up and down from the blow up mattress. My cracked rib had stiffened up so we had a good few whiskeys to loosen things up. Next morning we visited the museum. Theo couldn’t understand why the stuffed sheep on display had much bigger heads than any he’d ever bought in CT for making aval. He double checked the space situation in the top box. Yeah right. We left, his pockets bulging with Calvinia droe wors but given half a chance he would have wedged a sheep’s head under his arm. 182 km later we stopped at Brandvlei at Die Windpomp for brunch and to fill up. The place was owned by some famous SA musician who goes by the name of someone Windpomp. The walls were signed by loads of bikers passing through to rallies and it was clear the place came alive at night. I wondered how far the people out there had to travel for a jol, but evidence showed it was worth it.

Traveling further we spotted the strangest bird nests draped over telephone poles. They looked like haystacks up in the air with whole flocks of birds living inside them. 150 km further we reached Kenhardt making it a total of 332 km traveled the 2nd day. By searching the net I had seen pix of the hotel in Kenhardt and heard the owner was a biker so we were keen to stop for a cold beer. We got chatting to Eaton, the owner, who offered us extremely good biker friendly rates and a air conditioned room sounded pretty attractive. We changed into cooler clothes, walked through the lazy town, sweating and picking up semi precious stones embedded in the sandy pavements. Theo wanted to move there cos he reckoned the gardens were up his alley - not a blade of grass in site, just sand and the people seemed to siesta in the afternoons, another big plus for him. That evening we kuiered with Eaton and Suzette and became friends. They are the kind of people who you can’t not become friends with. He showed us a project which was close to his heart, a Chevy bakkie which he had restored, sprayed burnt orange and pimped up. Awesome. The thing tilted and rocked as it idled in the back skuur like a fiery bull waiting to break free. We braaied on the back stoep of the hotel and drank lots and lots of rum and coke until Eaton decided he was gonna ride a bit of the way with us next morning. We were up early, Eaton on his R1, and the 3 of us rode the 250km thru Keimoes, turned down to Kakamas for petrol and on to Augrabies Falls. The falls weren’t at their best, according to awesome pictures on display, and the place is a bit touristy but offered cold beers and at least now I can say I’ve been there. Then we headed back to Keimoes, where we relaxed at a nice spot with more cold beer before parting our ways. Eatons addy is kenhardt.hotel@lantic.net and offers good hospitality and the best biker friendly rates I’ve ever come across.

We headed on to Upington where we met up with Herman, filled up and drank gallons of water. Traveling in the heat had not been bad at all so far. The problem is when you stop and get off or negotiate through slow moving traffic and stop go situations soon has the sweat running down your back and into your eyes but on the open road we traveled at speeds of 160 – 170km and stayed cool. Even though the roads were so straight you could see into tomorrow, it still required concentration cos the heat made the road shimmer ahead and oncoming cars became a blur making overtaking dicey, especially when you’re tired. We flew through to Olifanstshoek, stopped for petrol and gallons more water and finally reached Kuruman. We had traveled 560 km that day. My body was sore and tired and I needed to strip out of my sweaty clothes and crack open a cool beer.

The countryside so far had varied a little here and there but mostly consisted of sand and low bush, except around Keimoes which was covered with vineyards, much to my surprise. Kuruman is like a oasis in the middle of the dessert. Huge, lush, cool gardens surround massive properties and house designs are varied with some mansions thrown in. The sand is red and the roads are wide and a peacefulness rests over the town. I saw no poverty, beggers or litter. Over the next few days, Herman took us sight seeing in his air conditioned car, and we all relaxed in their cool garden around a fire in the evenings. Theo, keen to try local food ate Dumpies, a traditional thing the Tswana’s make. It’s a moer of a big dumpling (more like a whole steamed bread) which gets cooked in the potjiekos pot and steams above the meat soaking up the pots flavours. Costs R5 for a slice served with gravy and tastes lekker. We visited the Wonder Caves. Overseas archeologists have determined (and are still currently excavating) from the layers of stone that the cave is 3 million years old and the bushman paintings and other artifacts show evidence of man living in the caves dating back to 850 000 years ago, making it the oldest inhabited caves in the world. We visited Donkergat Baai, a naturally made hole in the ground which is 24 km deep. On route we drove thru a game farm with loads of game from Kudu to Springbok. We visited Kathu, a mining town, also an oasis in the middle of nowhere. Herman told us the men all work in the mines while the women run the business’ in town. The sand is even redder and the gardens even more lush and cool and you succumb to the tranquility. We rode past the red sishen iron ore mines and stopped to pick up bits of tiger eye and iron ore rocks lying around next to the side of the road. On the roads we passed a few Kalahari Ferarri’s, that’s what they call the donkey carts which some people still use for transport. We rode past the Tswana townships which Herman explained was run by a chief. The people start their homes by asking the chief for permission to own a piece of land and then they build a shack. As soon is as possible the shack is upgraded to a brick house (often home made bricks). As the family can afford it, they continually build on and upgrade and quickly their home is transformed to a really nice house in a lovely neighborhood and the people walk tall and proud.When their son is ready to leave home and he is in good stead with the chief, he does the same and so the cycle continues. Everyone seems to be employed and no sign of poverty.

Old year’s came and went and so did another few cases of beer, a bottle of shooters and our first thunderstorm. Hot summer afternoons are often cooled down with a 10 minute down pour or a good thunderstorm with a guaranteed power cut and then everything goes back to normal. That evening we went into town looking for action but found more back home in the garden when the guys let off the fireworks and a low flying one had us all running for cover, me clutching my ribs. Mind you I guess I would have done more damage to myself trying to dance on the bar counter in town. New years morning everyone took as long as me to get the ol body to co-operate but at least I had an excuse.

Our route going back had changed from the original plan which was supposed to be along the N1 via Kimberly which I’ve never traveled as an adult, but Theo decided it would have been boring and more traffic heading home after the silly season. We settled on going left to Springbok and down the N7, a road we’d traveled 5 years back when I first learnt to ride a bike.

We packed up and mooched around waiting for the heat of the day and our babalas to pass. We collected the Vlak Vark wors (Wild Boar) which Theo had ordered from the butcher down the road. The guy had a off sales, a general dealer and a small butcher rolled into one and after chatting he told us to hang in there cos he was expecting a Vlak Vark any day. We made daily visits to find out if the pig had arrived which was handy since we kept running out of beers and on old years we found him in his shorts, barefoot, sucking on a beer, and ready to make sausage from the pig hanging in the cooler in the backyard. Theo was thrilled and after swapping recipe ideas with the guy he ordered a whole pig and made arrangements for it to be sent to Cape Town. I stopped him before we needed to sell the bike and hire a container truck for the sheep and venison he wanted to buy.

Our first stop back we planned to stay over at Die Eiland in Upington, which everyone recommended and was only 260 km away. We’d heard the temperature there the previous day was 50 deg cel and I wondered what lay ahead. Once back on the road we were eager to ride. Arriving at 4 o clock on New Years day was a bad idea. There were hundreds of people all jam-packed on a piece of lawn and the promised Orange River seemed fenced off. We decided to push on to Keimoes traveling 350 km for the day. We stayed at Kalahari Waters, which cost a whole R80 / person, a really cool place – more rustic you don’t get. Good choice unless you’re bang of creepy crawlies. Only problem was 2km dirt road to get there and another 2,5km to the river bush camp where we passed a 3 foot likkewaan dashing across the road. The section of corrugated road vibrated things including my rib, and the soft sand dip had me kaking in my pants but once we arrived at the bush camp it was worth it even though I dropped my bike the morning we left when I stupidly grabbed the front brakes and the bike slid out under me - no damage except a scratched fairing. There are 4 basic bamboo houses each with their own wooden furnished stoep and braai, and a communal kitchen, ablutions, and a lapa. We arrived hot and tired, the sun was setting and we didn’t have anything cold to drink. All we had was 2 packets of Vlak Vark wors squeezed into the top box, fortunately nothing looked me in the eye each time I got the sunblock out. We’d stopped in town for a packet of smash and some cheese bread thingies which I wedged down the front of my jacket. The liter of milk which Theo had wedged down his jacket got polished off at the camp office already.

We oohed and aahed at the cute bamboo house (a glorified tent with beds) and stuck the supplied gerrie can of luke warm water (marked “do not drink” but which the oomie at the office sed they grew up on) into the gas freezer in the communal kitchen. We chilled on the stoep, drinking slightly brak luke warm water with the Orange River in front of us and listened to the sounds of nature around us while we braaied the wors. It tasted yummy but Theo being an ace sausage maker himself was hoping for something more gamey and less coriandery. The only bummer about the place is the 2 houses facing the river are very close to each other and our neighbours seemed odd but we crashed out early and were lulled to sleep by the sound of their African drum which they beat in a ritual type of rhythm making me hope they weren’t planning to cook us in a big pot but was too tired to care. Something tickling my toe woke me up in the middle of the night but I soon drifted off again.

Next morning our potential cannibal Sandton slicker neighbours packed up and we had the whole place to ourselves. We couldn’t resist staying another day to enjoy the river and to explore. A troop of Blou Aapies (Fervit monkeys) came down from the tress above the river to eat and watch us. Some of the night time noises made sense now. We checked inside the freezer and found a pack of meat, cooldrink, a lettuce and six beers. What a luck! Theo said we must have done something right and it was karma coming back. Alternatively if the water we’d been drinking the night before gave us gippo guts then maybe we did something wrong. So we got stuck into the beers hoping no-one other than karma did come back for their stuff and wondered what we were gonna do about the fact that the loo paper was finished. After exploring the whole area we sat in the river where it turned out my toes were a sought after delicacy for the fish, or something or other kept sucking on them giving me the heebie jeebies. Later that afternoon we rode one bike into town to for breakfast goodies and returned to laze in the river and braai again. We left early next morning, eager to be on the bikes again. That’s when I dropped my bike in the sand, luckily not landing on my cracked rib side, but didn’t wanna linger long enough to stew over the scratched fairing. We stopped at Pofadder for coffee and Skeynskoek, in Springbok for a beer, through Bitterfontein, Garies and that’s where the wind started pumping hectically from the side for the next 100km till we reached Van Rhynsdorp doing 638km for the day. We headed for the bar at the hotel. The place was deserted except for the exact same two locals who were sitting at the exact same bar stools when we passed through on our way up. I wondered if they’d ever left especially since the barman said he’d worked 2 days solid right through since old years. We booked into the caravan park, braaied and crashed early. I’d noticed my bike wasn’t turning so lekker and wondered if I’d damaged anything on the front end in my little gravel spill. My body was tired and sore and I didn’t ponder on it for too long. Next morning took effort to tie my boots, and getting up and down on the mattress was a mission. That’s mission, not missionary. We packed up and headed for Clan William. It was hot but we stopped off at the museum and got a guided tour through the old jail. From there on to Citrusdal for a cooldrink and soon we were close to home. We stopped at Kriges in Durbanville for a draught to end off the trip. I could barely negotiate my bike through the traffic down Durban Road and nearly dropped it in the parking lot. I made such a wide turn I nearly rode into an oncoming car. I could barely get my jacket off and was even shaking a little from exhaustion. We had only done 300 km that last day but I was pooped. Our holiday had come to an end and I was sorry. It was the most continuous riding I’d ever done, and on top of that I’d been protecting my cracked rib which put extra strain on my shoulders and arms. We got home safe and sound and flopped on the couch and stayed there for a few hours. Later that evening when we parked the bikes and I could barely lift it off the side stand, never mind turn the handle bars, I realized there was nothing wrong with the steering on my bike but the problem was me and my sore, uncooperative arms and stiff body. None the less, I was grinning and happy and can’t wait to plan the next trip.

http://myjourney-debby.blogspot.com/