A decade ago, Steven
Harper had recently become the prime minister of Canada, Barrack Obama was the
democratic presidential nominee, the Iraq war was going strong, and I was
playing varsity rugby at McGill. I was in my early twenty’s, finishing my
bachelors in Microbiology & Immunology. I didn’t have my motorcycle license
yet. Fast forward to present day Cape Town, I get a blast-from-the-past when
Wes, a former McGill rugby teammate, messages me. He lives in Cape Town now and
he also rides motorcycles. Done deal.
We – accompanied by 2
other bikers – thus decided to spend a Sunday afternoon riding on the twisties
that snake around Table mountain. Perfect weather, not too hot, not too cold,
not too much traffic… Really a great day. Wes was riding a gorgeous black 1995
Honda CB 750 with red highlights. Just a beautiful machine. To complete the
pack, Taheer was on a Kawa Versys 650 and Brad was on an Aprilia Pegaso 650. We
hugged the flanks of the mountain passing by the Kirstenbosch botanical gardens
arriving at Hout bay to appreciate the view and have a pleasant conversation. The
second part of the ride took us on the western aspect of the cape peninsula,
hugging the hills as they dove right into the sea, weaving our way left and
right all the way back to the Cape Town waterfront before eventually splitting
on our different ways after a satisfying beer break.
You’re in a touristy
town, you’re going to do some touristy things. The art is in trying to apply
your own filter in trying to maintain somewhat of a genuine experience. Certain
attractions are touristic because of marketing done right. On the other hand,
some things are touristic because they have a universal value and appeal, no
matter how overcrowded they become. Personal tastes will be able to
discriminate the separation along this continuum but to give a very broad
example, Las Vegas would probably fit the first definition well and the Louvre,
the latter.
The Old Biscuit Mill
is a decommissioned late 19th century brick building complex in the
adequately-named Woodstock district which in the middle of a gentrification
phenomenon… which in South Africa means microbreweries, coffee shops, fashion
boutiques, and even a Michelin-level restaurant by day and gun shots at night. Nonetheless,
it’s a place enjoyed by tourists and locals alike. Food mostly, with an
astonishing variety (ostrich wraps, freshly-pressed fruit juices, dried meats,
donuts, fresh bread, edible flowers) but a lot of local companies as well
displaying their wearable or decorative crafts. And then there was a
techno-music dreadlocked druid entertaining the crowd with his mix of digeridoo
and fisher price plastic instruments… I mean, if you don’t like someone’s art,
you can just fuck off. That’s a philosophy I have keenly espoused, especially
being enamoured with such sonically acquired tastes like progressive heavy
metal, but I had to ask myself how much of our fundamental music appreciation is
dependent on rhythm alone (which the guy’s beat machine certainly had) and how
much of a simplistic melody but played by outlandish instrument actually
titillates our ears and brain. There is something satisfying about feeling
connected with a group of people, especially through music. To feel synced. There
is something fundamentally human about being able to follow a beat… on a
functional, societal level. But we have gone past that (I hope). There is more
to music than blindly rowing the slave ship of our appreciation to the sound of
a monotonously repeating drum. Maybe it’s age catching up with me (oh crap),
but this is one of the reasons why I think modern pop music is tasteless,
bland, and all sounds the same. It does more than bore me, it actually annoys
me. If I don’t like it, I can just shup up about it. True. It’s just that I’ve
had to repeatedly explain myself, in more polite terms than these, how I could
possibly not like or know about the new hit that everyone will have forgotten
by next month. It's not because "everybody" likes it that it automatically becomes good. Majority rules is a good concept for democracy, but as far as
other domains are concerned, it carries less weight in my opinion.
My other touristic
activity involved hiking up the Lion’s head mountain. The Cape Town city center
is surrounded by three major hills: Devil’s Peak, Table Mountain, and Lion’s
head (with Signal Hill being a continuation of it). Table Mountain is the
famous one to climb but my hiking friends, Liam and Ian, had already done it.
The hike was lovely, giving a fantastic view of Cape Town itself, but also
Camp’s bay, and Robben Island (where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 18 out
of 27 years). A fun, short, and at times challenging climb requiring the use of
your hands as much as your legs.
At this point, I had
seen a significant amount of sights in and around Cape Town. Many bars and
coffee shops of course, but museums, events, and many other natural sights as
well. With Soraya coming to visit me next week I had also kept a selection of
major sights and activities to do together. So after another 2 uneventful
shifts in the trauma department, I packed my bike with my camping gear and
headed out to the Karoo desert.
On my ride out of Cape
Town, driving almost straight north, I could see the imposing mass of Table
Mountain slowly shrinking in my sideview mirrors. The farmlands followed one
another through rolling hills. I could smell the dust in the air. Riding in
countries like South Africa, Guatemala, Belize, or Mexico I learned to be very
suspicious of trucks, older cars, or cars with fully compressed suspensions
(which means they are carrying a heavy load). All three of these vehicles are
often found driving at speeds significantly inferior to traffic and if you
don’t pay attention, especially during climbs, an accident is bound to happen.
Luckily this day, there were very few which allowed me to enjoy the environment
I was in. The mountain ranges in the backdrop were my day’s end objective and are
always a source of motivation when I ride on trips like these. Unless your idea
of riding motorcycles is doing long and boring highway distances, mountains are
a biker’s dream. Except for tunnels, there are no straight roads in the
mountains. The more those roads meander, the less cars and trucks you will find
until, if you are fortunate enough, the tarmac belongs to you and you alone. Mountains
also form natural barriers for both flora, fauna, and even humans creating two
universes on either side for your senses to discover. I always find it exciting
as I crest mountain passes to see these new worlds unravel themselves in front
of me from the best possible vantage point.
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| Corrugations. Washboard. Pain in the ass. |
I passed Citrusdale and started my climb of the Cederberg mountains on dirt roads which were badly corrugated. A really uncomfortable ride at first. So I lowered the pressure in my tires to give my joints a break and to get more traction in the dirt. These quick fixes helped a bit but the biggest contribution to improving my ride was when I understood there was a velocity sweet spot to these washboard roads. Too slow and the bike will shake like a heroin addict in withdrawal as the tires dip in every groove and get pushed back with every bump. Too fast, skipping through entire sections of corrugations and making limited contact with the tops of the bumps offers too little control. Especially on a fully loaded adventure bike. The sweet spot is when your tires stay away from the bottom of the grooves and manages to contact as many of the tops as possible. Trial and error finally got me at that desired velocity and the rest of the ride was fantastically enjoyable as the sun started setting upon an arid but not completely desertic landscape.
The Africa Twin I was
riding definitely felt heavy with all the gear I had on (camping, cooking,
clothes, food, water, tools) but was becoming more manageable as the kilometers
of dirt road flew by. I got to my campsite right when the sun dipped down past
the mountain tops. Luckily for me, it was in a beautiful meadow, next to an
orange orchard, traversed by a tranquil stream… and I had the campsite to
myself. I cooked some boerwors (Afrikaan sausages) with rice, drank some South
African brandy and went to bed a happy camper.
The next day was going
to be the longest driving day I had planned for this 4-day excursion. Roughly
500km on unpaved roads. I packed my stuff, put on my riding gear, kicked the sidestand
up, and pressed on the ignition. Nothing. Battery flat. I must have
inadvertently kept the lights on too long while I was unpacking in the dark the
night prior. Oh well. Remove the gear. Unpack. Push the bike up a small hill.
Start the bike using the compression of the engine. Repack. Re-put the gear on.
Off I go.
I rode through more farmlands
and finally arrived in the Karoo desert. I would have expected the progression
to be subtle, and while the aridity of my environment did go through a steady
evolution, the soil kept jumping back and forth from dark soil, to red earth,
to bright yellow sand, to gray moon-like dust, and every other shade in
between. In contrast with the confused type of terrain, its relief was a clear
bipolar option. Vast plains or mountains. Nothing really in between. The
combination of all these factors, coupled with near complete human desolation,
created a very ethereal atmosphere dotted with wisps of dusty clouds dancing to
the melody of the wind. I saw more antelopes than people.
Gemsboks!!!
I crossed the Katbakkies
and Ouberg mountain passes as well as the pains in between to finally reach the
town of Sutherland on the eastern side the Tankwa Karoo National park. The
higher altitude, dry air, and lack of large urban areas make this an excellent
area for star gazing as demonstrated by their observatory and the American
scientists who were there. I had a quick lunch, fuel refill, and continued my
drive north towards Middelpos and lastly down the gorgeous Ganaga pass plunging
into the vastness of the national park.
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| The Ganaga pass roads had... personality |
The road was beautifully
cracked by the repeating cycles of rare desert flash rains and extreme aridity.
The road is slowly being destroyed, and yet, it is nevertheless a process of
creation. Nature just trying to do its thing. Most processes of natural
destruction are usually coupled with a boom in life. Forests need forest fires.
The Okavango needs its yearly flood. The monsoon is vital to the Indian
sub-continent. What nature has managed is a subtle balance… which we are
totally screwing up. In any case, the impact of nature on the road made it that
much more interesting to drive on. Little obstacles, jumps, soft sand
sections, off-camber tilts. Lots of fun on the bike, but the fully packed Land
Rover I quickly zoomed by was probably not sharing these thoughts.
After a couple more
kilometers, I reported to the park office where I was able to select my camping
spot: as remote as I could possibly find. After setting up camp, I made myself
dinner with the little camp stove I had brought. Far from a culinary experience,
the meal went down smoother with the brandy I had left. The sun began setting
down and offered itself in true African form: giant red ball sinking into the
savannah. Pictures will never do it justice.
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| This doesn't do it justice. You had to be there! |
Up in the very early
morning with the sun and the animals. The day’s plan was a much simpler
itinerary than the previous day’s. Shorter too. What could go wrong? I drove
out of the park using twisty sandy roads. The beauty of driving in an
environment with no trees, is that your horizon extends for dozens of
kilometers in all directions, like being on a boat in the middle of the
ocean. Then it dawns on you, like a
child when he understands the implications of birthdays or Christmas: that gift
is all yours. I have an immense playground all to myself. Its beautiful. It’s
soothing. It’s therapeutic. It has so much to offer. I never cease to be amazed
at the absolute marvels this planet has to offer. That’s when I get this
absurdly weird mixed emotion of sadness and joy. Sadnoy. Whatever. Like
nostalgia but for the present/future. I can’t believe how lucky I am. I can’t believe it took me 31 years to
discover this place. I can’t believe there are places like this I’ll never get
to see.
Ted Simon truly
captures, better than I can, what it is like to travel the way I do:
“In spite of wars and tourism and pictures by
satellite, the world is just the same size it ever was. It is awesome to think
how much of it I will never see. It is not a trick to go round these days, you
can pay a lot of money and fly round it nonstop in less than forty-eight hours,
but to know it, to smell it and feel it between your toes you have to crawl.
There is no other way. Not flying, not floating. You have to stay on the ground
and swallow the bugs as you go. Then the world is immense. The best you can do
is to trace your long, infinitesimally thin line through the dust and
extrapolate.”
For lunch, I stopped
at a notorious motorcycle landmark: Tankwa Tented Camp. You might think it
would be a terrible business decision to open a campsite in the middle of the
Karoo desert, but if your demographic of interest is off road bikers or men in
general, if you build a bar… they will come. Probably the most remote bar I have
ever been in come to think about it. The place seems taken straight out of Mad
Max or Brütal legend where automobile or motorcycle parts have been
incorporated in the infrastructure of the building in a very post-apocalyptic
vibe. Whether they merely have a decorative-only function, or play an actual
role in structural integrity was sometimes difficult to differentiate. Most of
the electricity came from solar or wind power. They had generators just in
case. It was quiet on this Tuesday afternoon, only 2 people were staying at the
camp, but I was told the weekend was booked solid with 100 bikers. A
middle-aged accountant from George doing a ride with his wife on a Yamaha Super
Tenere greeted me. We exchange a very pleasant conversation about motorcycling of
course, but African politics and sports as well as we watched a rugby game on
TV and sipped our 2$ beers. The bar was covered in motorcycle gear: helmets,
bike parts, goggle. There was an indoor fire pit surrounded by car seats. An
old Harley Davidson with deflated tires sitting in the corner. I bought a
little bit of fuel to be on the safe side and drove off. I made a small detour
to see the site of the Africa Burn festival, the African version of burning
man, which had already a few structures being built. Kind of a surreal
experience. |
| Overview of Tankwa Tented Camp |
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| My type of bar |
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| Apparently Jagermeister is a a lunch menu option. |
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| Filling up |
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| Africa Burn festival |
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My next and final
destination was maybe 50 kilometers away. Separating me from it however, was
the Old Postal road which is supposed to be a challenging bit of off road
driving, but seeing that jeeps can go through it, it is not particularly
challenging for any motorcyclist with a bit of dirt experience. The more
challenging parts were at the beginning with deep sand sections (tricky with my
heavy bike and all the gear loaded) and 2-3 water crossings. Wanting to avoid
dropping the bike and having to pick all of its 150kg up, I was particularly
careful in those more technical sections. As the road became rockier but easier
to ride, the scenery began opening up with views of a gorgeous canyon system.
Old Postal road water crossing, deep sand
Cows and canyons
Oh crap.
Oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck.
Bashplate bent and
full of oil dripping down. “When the fuck did THAT happen??” I went from
tourist-mode put-putting gently (yes, I promise it was gently) and taking
pictures to get-the-fuck-out-of-here-before-I-lose-whatever-I-have-left-of-oil
mode in a flash. Pretty sure that Africa Twin never went so fast off road in
its 14 years of experience. Jumps. Drift turns. Explosive water crossings. I
reached one of the last water crossings, where 2 other bikers, father and son,
had parked their bikes and were planning on camping overnight. The contrast of
the moods was extreme. I was sweating, heart racing, nervous. They were bare
foot, smiling, relaxed.
“- Howzit? Great day isn’t it?
- Hi! I’m leaking oil.
- Oh, that’s tough
luck. Want a beer?
- ………………………………………yes.”
The beers were a
little warm so we immersed them in the stream to cool down while we checked the
bike. I hadn’t really inspected the damage, opting rather to race out and seek
help as fast as possible before losing the rest of my oil. Now that I had
people to help out and being only 5 kilometers away from the nearest farm, I
could breathe a little and look at my options… because I had options now. The
bashplate had taken a hit right where the oil filter was located, punching a
small hole in it. Better that then a hole in the engine casing. Because I’ve
done that before. Not cool. Had to sell the bike to a friend who wanted a
repair challenge (Thanks Dan!). He ended up selling it to someone else who also
wanted a repair challenge.
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| Great place to break down. |
 |
| Stream-cooled beers. |
I was lost for words. "How?" There are only two ways this could have happened. One way is taking a jump and
landing the engine on top of a rock. Sometimes you land the wheels first but
the rapid compression of the suspension brings the engine down on a rock. Those
landings, you feel. Your spine feels it. I know from experience. They’re rough.
It’s a big impact. Especially on these bigger bikes. I had had none of those.
The other way this could have happened, would have been a precision-guided oil
filter-seeking rock missile with enough force to pierce the bashplate. This
also seemed unlikely. The rock would have needed the right trajectory, the
right shape, enough speed, etc. But after removing the bashplate and realizing
it had the structural integrity of wet cardboard, that second explanation is
probably what happened. A million to one shot, doc.
“- You’re really
unlucky man!
- Well, I guess. But I
see it differently. I’m riding a bike in a beautiful environment halfway across
the world, seeing marvellous things, I’m not hurt, I have food and water to
last me another 2-3 days, camping gear, the next farm is walking distance, my
bike has a fixable issue (replace the filter or plug the hole, add oil), I now
have company, and I am drinking a free beer. Adventures suck when you’re having
them but the quicker you realize you are having one, the quicker you can enjoy
yourself again. I’m actually pretty fortunate.”
I mentioned previously
how I have ridden motorcycles in remote regions of Canada, the USA, Mexico,
Guatemala, Belize, and South Africa. I, or my riding partner, have had issues,
mechanical or personal, in every single one of those countries. No exception. Broken
wheel bearings in Quebec, destroyed rear sprocket in Ontario, seized engine in
St Louis, cracked luggage rack in Guatemala, chain popping in Guatemala,
spilled engine coolant in Guatemala… yes, that bike was shit. Strangers helped.
Every. Single. Time. Men, women, adults, children, white, black, and everything
in between. In the majority of cases, complete strangers have gone WAY above
and beyond to help out. The owner of a motorcycle garage kept the place open,
employees and all, 2-3 hours after closing time, hosted me in his house, and
made me pay a fraction of the price I actually owed him. “The guys on shiny
Harleys will pay for the rest”. I even had to fight him for the bill when we
went to the restaurant (it was his restaurant night with his wife that day…).
As someone who thinks of himself as being on the extreme end of rational,
coining the term evidence-based life
in the process, I find it very difficult to explain to people who haven’t yet
experienced this amazing human experience when I say: “Someone always comes”.
It sounds crazy. Complete lunacy. But… someone
always does come! When preparing a motorcycle journey, no one should
obviously depend on this. Ever. But I am not the only one to think like this. More
traveled motorcyclists like Ted Simon (Jupiter’s Travels), Charley Boorman, the
famous Ewan McGreggor (yes, Obi Wan Kenobi), and countless others have
experienced the very same phenomenon. Someone always comes. It has even
transcended into the arts with Blanche Dubois famously always depending on the
kindness of strangers.
So why is it so crazy
then? Why have we come to expect so little from our fellow humans? There is
certainly conflicting evidence. We don’t need any additional proof to confirm
how shitty humans have treated each other. My thought is that the scale of “shittiness”
has the unfortunate tendency to grow exponentially while generosity, love, and compassion
are generally felt at a much smaller scale. Hate, distrust, discrimination become
more contagious as the mob grows and as the collective IQ drops. But take each individual
separately, and there is good, no matter how small, in all of them. I really
believe there is. “Yeah but what about Hitler? Or this guy? Or that guy? They
were pure evil. They were crazy. They were possessed. They were this or that.”
Yes, there have been monsters. People that have caused unimaginable pain. But
to demonize people, to simplify the complexity of human behaviours into easily palatable
black and white and ostracize them as inhuman - as "not you" - so you can sleep at night is to de-responsibilize society and
ourselves in the creation of such monsters. It's unfortunately part of us. We have to own it. Ignoring it won't prevent it from happening again. Believe it or not, Hitler was
human. So was Charles Manson and the other assholes that have destroyed so many
lives. But guess what? They had a mother, a father, friends, people they loved,
they made jokes. Their crimes should never, EVER, be lessened because of that
but ignoring the impact we collectively have on one another, no matter how big
or small the scale is, is begging for the making of more scum.
Where was I? Oh right.
So my oil filter had a hole in it. Speaking to the two other bikers I met, we
decided the rate of oil loss was small enough for me to get back to Tankwa Tented
Camp where I could get more help and more tools provided I could fill the bike
with oil. So the son put his gear on, rode his bike to the farm and brought
back some oil. We filled my bike up and I raced back to the farm. I picked up
more oil there and rode all the way to the campsite, stopping every 5 km or so
to fill up with oil.
When I got to the
camp, the same guy I had met previously was surprised to see me. We shared a
good laugh when I explained my story. I called the store from where I had
rented the bike and explained the situation. “Oh, no problem, I’ll get in touch
with a mechanic in the area and try to get you sorted within 24-48 hours”. My other option would have been to try and plug the hole with some kind of steel-reinforced epoxy, or putty. But I was in a safe place, plenty of food, and with a way to communicate with the rest of the world. If my quick fix were to give out in another remote area, I would have been back to square zero... and we didn't have epoxy anyways. I quickly became friends with two other bikers that had arrived while I was gone,
shared dinner together and started chain-drinking late into the night. I’m not
sure why, but they were obsessed with Jagermeister shots. I was given 3 or 4…
or maybe 5… looking back it’s still a bit fuzzy.
The next morning, I
said goodbye to my new friends after exchanging numbers for possible future
rides. I started my long 24 – 48 hour wait by reading the pocket book I had
brought along when after only a few pages, I heard the sound of a large truck. I
figured these new visitors would allow me to kill some time, so went out to
greet them. It turned out to be a flat bed truck. With a freaking crane. They
were delivering concrete bricks.
“ - Hi guys… where are
you driving to after this?
- Cape Town.
- [Ace Ventura voice]
REE-HE-HE-HE-HEAAAAAALY?”
Instead of waiting for
some poor guy to drive all the way to the Karoo to deliver some bike parts to me,
I decided to put the bike on the truck and ride along all the way
to Cape Town where a mechanic from the store could meet me, help me fix the
bike, and get me rolling again.
“What happened on the way, who I met, all that
was incidental. I had not quite realized that the interruptions were the
journey.”
-
Ted Simon
