O
Oppad
Guest
My son, Tomas, came down to visit for the holidays and to negotiate the move of his Djebel (Suzuki DR200) to Gauteng where he is currently studying. The deal was that he could buy it off me for R5 as soon as he had a license. He arrived with the necessary paperwork and I had little recourse but to start saying goodbye to the Djebel which had become my favourite means to buzz around in town with.
Originally we had planned a longer road trip but various things conspired against this, leaving only the weekend of the S.O.S on the Breede.
We heard about this jol on the river and decided to set off on Friday December 11 in search of it, following the coast to where the Breede runs into the sea and then working our way up.
First stop. Clarence Drive and False Bay between Gordons Bay and Rooi-els. We've come a long way from Parow baby. Some real upmarket stretches of ocean here.
Although the Djebel's cruising speed of 90 km/h (it will get 110 with a bit of a tail wind) limited us somewhat, it really was not much of an issue. The sun was shining, the wind at rest and the holiday traffic had not started yet. Easy cruising which I found less boring than anticipated. The speed was also kind to the knobblies on the tar stretches.
On to Hermanus where all the whales had left some months previously. I don't like the town very much but we were on a sightseeing trip for Gauteng based Tomas' benefit.
We were going to swing left at Stanford and follow dirt roads down to Baardskeerdersbos and Elim, but Tomas expressed some interest in the cage diving operations at Kleinbaai. So we carried on to Gansbaai where the peak of Tomas' helmet suddenly came off. The screws holding it to the helmet on either side were gone. Straining against a cross wind probably had something to do with it but then one should check all your gear and not only the bike before leaving on a trip. We got some 6mm screws at alocal hardware but they were slightly too long.
At Kleinbaai I rummaged among the assortment of nuts and bolts I always carry with and found a perfect fit. Most of the shark boats had already come in, but it is always an interesting scene.
Helmet repairs at the Shark Shack with its overpriced tourist goodies while the locals look on.
Shark boats
We continued to the turn-off to Baardskeerdersbos, but the last bit of this magic dirt road between Uilenskraalmond and Bredasdorp were being tarred. I'm so glad I had the opportunity to have done it a few times while it was still gravel. Oh, well.
At Die Dam we tuned left on the dirt road, looping around to Struisbaai. Just before the road joined the R319 for the last stretch into Struisbaai and Cape Agulhas we came across two Harleys on the dirt. So where are the guys who said Harleys only go to Camps Bay? Granted, that particular stretch of dirt road is packed hard and in a better condition than just about 90% of tar in South Africa.
Also, Harro (left) and Paul are not from the Cape Town Harley Club but all the way from Holland. It is nice to have money to burn. They had flown down from Holland the previous day, rented the bikes in Cape Town and were planning to fly out again on the Sunday. It seems Harro, who has been here before, just wanted to quickly show Paul where the most southernmost point in Africa is.
The obligatory pic at the end of the known world
Lighthouse at L'Agulhas
After a quick look at the bustling little harbour in Struisbaai we fuelled up and headed north-west through Bredasdorp, turning off towards Malgas. It was getting late but we had no set plans and were planning to pitch camp whenever and wherever we felt like it.
On the dirt the little Djebel was really coming into its own, merrily buzzing along at top speed for most of the way. As we came down the steep incline leading into Malgas it was already past 18:00. The ferry (pont) across the Breede was getting ready to leave for the other side with what was to be it's last cargo of the day.
We whizzed up the ramp just in time and were already some 10 m out on the river when a skedonk with faux spotted cow leather seats (similar to the stuff in the Spur) and a flat rear tyre came bouncing down the road. The passengers peeled from the car, running up to the river and begging us to return. The kind ferry drivers put the contraption in reverse (pure muscle power, no engine) to pick them up. As they pointed out the flat tyre to the driver, he retorted: "Moenie net praat nie...ruil hom sommer om, ruil hom sommer om!"
We eventually departed, everybody on the ferry for some or other strange reason in high spirits
Changing a wheel on the car while the ferry drivers strain against their chains
The ferry in all its late afternoon glory
With the setting sun wielding its fiery whip behind us, we decided to make for Witsand and find a place to spend the night.
A guy named Tollie rented us a piece of ground in one of the two municipal camping grounds. At around R160 it was a bit steep but for the same price you could have pitched another 5 two-man tents on our alloted space. Tollie also threw in the standard toilet roll and a black garbage bag, both of which good use was made.
We wanted to throw a huge Texan steak, that had been ripening gently all day long in my backpack , on a fire. However all the shops were closed and with no wood or charcoal for a fire, no brick and mortar braai spots in sight and darkness coming down, we were stuck. Fortunately a restaurant cum pub on the beachfront served us lekker hamburgers and we celebrated the end of the first day with some moerse expensive Guiness draught, cheaper Windhoeks and, when we got back to the camp, a bracing shot of brandy.
The steak:
The next morning we realised that the meat was not going to live for another day in the sun but at 06:00 a friendly gatekeeper who goes by the name of Klaas, came to the rescue and hustled up a portable braai and some Rooikrans twigs.
Tomas braaing away at a breakfast for champions:
Die Ruiter in Swart. I simply had to include this pic as the rays of the rising sun and the black clothes provided me with a flattering slimline look. I think I will send the pic as a Christmas greeting to all those girls who had dumped me in the decades gone by, post scripting the Best Wishes part with a question: And how has life treated you, Fatso?
With a party waiting between Worcester and Robertson we could not drift around as aimlessly as the previous day but decided to go straight up to Heidelberg, cross over to the R62 via Tradouw pass and then take the R62 to Robertson.
First we quickly visited Port Beaufort on the banks of the Breede. When you travel on a bike you get all kinds of strange thoughts and looking at the mouth of the river I was suddenly wondering to what extent water molecules (the H-two-O stuff) are aware of the self. What would happen, for instance, if they had entered a happy medium on their long way down to the sea and someone suddenly scoops up a jar of water just before said molecules enter the ocean. Would they be disturbed in any way if you then transport the jar way back to where the Breede flows between Robertson and Worcester and dump it in the river there? Surely they would be dik de moer in if they had the same self-awareness as humans or higher primates, like: "Damn, we almost made it to the sea, and now we have to start all over again." Or maybe they will see you as some kind of deity who had saved them from a salty ordeal.
No, we had no mushrooms with the steak.
Checking out the Tradouw
More Tradouw. Also built by one of the Bains (father or son) it is one of the more underrated passes in the Western Cape. The dirt road nazi's will avoid it to their own detriment while most other people usually travel either on the R62 or the N2, missing out on this particular piece of prettiness.
Everybody doing the R62 on a bike should at least once stop at Ronnies Sex Shop between Barrydale and Ladismith or The Country Pumpkin in Barrydale. We were not going to backtrack all the way to Ronnies but decide on having coffee at the Pumpkin. The Route 62 metal badges are not given away anymore but all bikers are still served with a free shot of sweet muscadel. This must have acted as an aperatif because alle of a sudden we were hungry again.
Tomas looking decidedly perky after the muscadel and the breakfast.
We carried on through Montagu, the rather dowdy Ashton and stopped in Robertson for some last minute shopping before hitting Rivierplaas. Getting nearly trampled underfoot at the Pick n Pay, a brass band on the sidewalk made its noisy contribution to the usual hustle and bustle of all platteland towns in the Western Cape on a shopping Saturday morning.
Having fuelled up again we followed the purple ribbon of the GPS out of town when I suddenly realised this is taking us to the northern side of the Breede whereas we wanted to be south. A quick call to Operator established that the GPS was indeed running true and we would be crossing a low water bridge to end up on the right side.
While stopping to check on the GPS again (it is a tiny eTrex, you have to stop and squint) Sprocketbek rocked up on his 640. Go ahead, I motioned to him, you're a lot faster than us. He disappeared in a cloud of dust and the uncouth bark of an engine that is reportedly ready to race. Within a few kilometres we came up to him again. The KTM has died, making a noise similar to the death cry Butch's 990 came up with at Sendelingsdrift when you try to start it. Talk about the tortoise and the hare.
None of us had a tow rope but we were only 5km from Rivierplaas and we went off to look for some rope. No need, as a bakkie were promptly dispatched as a recovery vehicle.
At the farm the party was in full swing with guys like Smithy having arrived the previous day already. The sometime vegetarian LS was lurking behind a little cooler box from which he guiltily extracted yslike stukke vleis, very much like a drugster coveting his stash.
Watching the antics:
The Djebel was soon upstaged as the smallest bike at the party when Highlander burbled in on his two-stroke. Gathered around in admiration is Topbox, LS and Eisbein:
What a healthy, clean-living weekend on the farm. Here goes yours truly down the foefieslide, looking more like a great white whale than the slender savant of the morning.
The sun sets and it's time to braai (again). The organisation was tops with clean drinking water, more than enough wood, clean ablutions and music on tap.
The busy barman
Party, party, party...
The next morning the camp emptied itself in a flash. Maybe it was the attack of the dawn mosquitoes. Maybe the quest for headache remedies or the weather report warning of gale force winds. Maybe it was just us because before Tomas and I knew it, we were the only ones left.
The relatively short trip home proved to be more eventful than expected. Watching the weather I decided to make a call on taking the tunnel or the pass when we get to the split. The wind was not too bad and the few drops did not make up a drizzle so we opted for the pass. Little did I know we were still running in the lee of the mountain.
Stopping at the top for the sightsee thing we were still protected from the wind. I watched three GS1200's coming up somewhat slower than the usual Sunday morning crowd. They greeted but it was mere nods with their helmets rather than a big show of hands. We soon found out why.
The wind came howling down the Paarl side of the mountain, nearly sweeping the KLR into the culvert at one stage. The lighter Djebel also did a few dicey dances towards the edge but we eventually blew into town without mishap.
The end.
Originally we had planned a longer road trip but various things conspired against this, leaving only the weekend of the S.O.S on the Breede.
We heard about this jol on the river and decided to set off on Friday December 11 in search of it, following the coast to where the Breede runs into the sea and then working our way up.
First stop. Clarence Drive and False Bay between Gordons Bay and Rooi-els. We've come a long way from Parow baby. Some real upmarket stretches of ocean here.
Although the Djebel's cruising speed of 90 km/h (it will get 110 with a bit of a tail wind) limited us somewhat, it really was not much of an issue. The sun was shining, the wind at rest and the holiday traffic had not started yet. Easy cruising which I found less boring than anticipated. The speed was also kind to the knobblies on the tar stretches.
On to Hermanus where all the whales had left some months previously. I don't like the town very much but we were on a sightseeing trip for Gauteng based Tomas' benefit.
We were going to swing left at Stanford and follow dirt roads down to Baardskeerdersbos and Elim, but Tomas expressed some interest in the cage diving operations at Kleinbaai. So we carried on to Gansbaai where the peak of Tomas' helmet suddenly came off. The screws holding it to the helmet on either side were gone. Straining against a cross wind probably had something to do with it but then one should check all your gear and not only the bike before leaving on a trip. We got some 6mm screws at alocal hardware but they were slightly too long.
At Kleinbaai I rummaged among the assortment of nuts and bolts I always carry with and found a perfect fit. Most of the shark boats had already come in, but it is always an interesting scene.
Helmet repairs at the Shark Shack with its overpriced tourist goodies while the locals look on.
Shark boats
We continued to the turn-off to Baardskeerdersbos, but the last bit of this magic dirt road between Uilenskraalmond and Bredasdorp were being tarred. I'm so glad I had the opportunity to have done it a few times while it was still gravel. Oh, well.
At Die Dam we tuned left on the dirt road, looping around to Struisbaai. Just before the road joined the R319 for the last stretch into Struisbaai and Cape Agulhas we came across two Harleys on the dirt. So where are the guys who said Harleys only go to Camps Bay? Granted, that particular stretch of dirt road is packed hard and in a better condition than just about 90% of tar in South Africa.
Also, Harro (left) and Paul are not from the Cape Town Harley Club but all the way from Holland. It is nice to have money to burn. They had flown down from Holland the previous day, rented the bikes in Cape Town and were planning to fly out again on the Sunday. It seems Harro, who has been here before, just wanted to quickly show Paul where the most southernmost point in Africa is.
The obligatory pic at the end of the known world
Lighthouse at L'Agulhas
After a quick look at the bustling little harbour in Struisbaai we fuelled up and headed north-west through Bredasdorp, turning off towards Malgas. It was getting late but we had no set plans and were planning to pitch camp whenever and wherever we felt like it.
On the dirt the little Djebel was really coming into its own, merrily buzzing along at top speed for most of the way. As we came down the steep incline leading into Malgas it was already past 18:00. The ferry (pont) across the Breede was getting ready to leave for the other side with what was to be it's last cargo of the day.
We whizzed up the ramp just in time and were already some 10 m out on the river when a skedonk with faux spotted cow leather seats (similar to the stuff in the Spur) and a flat rear tyre came bouncing down the road. The passengers peeled from the car, running up to the river and begging us to return. The kind ferry drivers put the contraption in reverse (pure muscle power, no engine) to pick them up. As they pointed out the flat tyre to the driver, he retorted: "Moenie net praat nie...ruil hom sommer om, ruil hom sommer om!"
We eventually departed, everybody on the ferry for some or other strange reason in high spirits
Changing a wheel on the car while the ferry drivers strain against their chains
The ferry in all its late afternoon glory
With the setting sun wielding its fiery whip behind us, we decided to make for Witsand and find a place to spend the night.
A guy named Tollie rented us a piece of ground in one of the two municipal camping grounds. At around R160 it was a bit steep but for the same price you could have pitched another 5 two-man tents on our alloted space. Tollie also threw in the standard toilet roll and a black garbage bag, both of which good use was made.
We wanted to throw a huge Texan steak, that had been ripening gently all day long in my backpack , on a fire. However all the shops were closed and with no wood or charcoal for a fire, no brick and mortar braai spots in sight and darkness coming down, we were stuck. Fortunately a restaurant cum pub on the beachfront served us lekker hamburgers and we celebrated the end of the first day with some moerse expensive Guiness draught, cheaper Windhoeks and, when we got back to the camp, a bracing shot of brandy.
The steak:
The next morning we realised that the meat was not going to live for another day in the sun but at 06:00 a friendly gatekeeper who goes by the name of Klaas, came to the rescue and hustled up a portable braai and some Rooikrans twigs.
Tomas braaing away at a breakfast for champions:
Die Ruiter in Swart. I simply had to include this pic as the rays of the rising sun and the black clothes provided me with a flattering slimline look. I think I will send the pic as a Christmas greeting to all those girls who had dumped me in the decades gone by, post scripting the Best Wishes part with a question: And how has life treated you, Fatso?
With a party waiting between Worcester and Robertson we could not drift around as aimlessly as the previous day but decided to go straight up to Heidelberg, cross over to the R62 via Tradouw pass and then take the R62 to Robertson.
First we quickly visited Port Beaufort on the banks of the Breede. When you travel on a bike you get all kinds of strange thoughts and looking at the mouth of the river I was suddenly wondering to what extent water molecules (the H-two-O stuff) are aware of the self. What would happen, for instance, if they had entered a happy medium on their long way down to the sea and someone suddenly scoops up a jar of water just before said molecules enter the ocean. Would they be disturbed in any way if you then transport the jar way back to where the Breede flows between Robertson and Worcester and dump it in the river there? Surely they would be dik de moer in if they had the same self-awareness as humans or higher primates, like: "Damn, we almost made it to the sea, and now we have to start all over again." Or maybe they will see you as some kind of deity who had saved them from a salty ordeal.
No, we had no mushrooms with the steak.
Checking out the Tradouw
More Tradouw. Also built by one of the Bains (father or son) it is one of the more underrated passes in the Western Cape. The dirt road nazi's will avoid it to their own detriment while most other people usually travel either on the R62 or the N2, missing out on this particular piece of prettiness.
Everybody doing the R62 on a bike should at least once stop at Ronnies Sex Shop between Barrydale and Ladismith or The Country Pumpkin in Barrydale. We were not going to backtrack all the way to Ronnies but decide on having coffee at the Pumpkin. The Route 62 metal badges are not given away anymore but all bikers are still served with a free shot of sweet muscadel. This must have acted as an aperatif because alle of a sudden we were hungry again.
Tomas looking decidedly perky after the muscadel and the breakfast.
We carried on through Montagu, the rather dowdy Ashton and stopped in Robertson for some last minute shopping before hitting Rivierplaas. Getting nearly trampled underfoot at the Pick n Pay, a brass band on the sidewalk made its noisy contribution to the usual hustle and bustle of all platteland towns in the Western Cape on a shopping Saturday morning.
Having fuelled up again we followed the purple ribbon of the GPS out of town when I suddenly realised this is taking us to the northern side of the Breede whereas we wanted to be south. A quick call to Operator established that the GPS was indeed running true and we would be crossing a low water bridge to end up on the right side.
While stopping to check on the GPS again (it is a tiny eTrex, you have to stop and squint) Sprocketbek rocked up on his 640. Go ahead, I motioned to him, you're a lot faster than us. He disappeared in a cloud of dust and the uncouth bark of an engine that is reportedly ready to race. Within a few kilometres we came up to him again. The KTM has died, making a noise similar to the death cry Butch's 990 came up with at Sendelingsdrift when you try to start it. Talk about the tortoise and the hare.
None of us had a tow rope but we were only 5km from Rivierplaas and we went off to look for some rope. No need, as a bakkie were promptly dispatched as a recovery vehicle.
At the farm the party was in full swing with guys like Smithy having arrived the previous day already. The sometime vegetarian LS was lurking behind a little cooler box from which he guiltily extracted yslike stukke vleis, very much like a drugster coveting his stash.
Watching the antics:
The Djebel was soon upstaged as the smallest bike at the party when Highlander burbled in on his two-stroke. Gathered around in admiration is Topbox, LS and Eisbein:
What a healthy, clean-living weekend on the farm. Here goes yours truly down the foefieslide, looking more like a great white whale than the slender savant of the morning.
The sun sets and it's time to braai (again). The organisation was tops with clean drinking water, more than enough wood, clean ablutions and music on tap.
The busy barman
Party, party, party...
The next morning the camp emptied itself in a flash. Maybe it was the attack of the dawn mosquitoes. Maybe the quest for headache remedies or the weather report warning of gale force winds. Maybe it was just us because before Tomas and I knew it, we were the only ones left.
The relatively short trip home proved to be more eventful than expected. Watching the weather I decided to make a call on taking the tunnel or the pass when we get to the split. The wind was not too bad and the few drops did not make up a drizzle so we opted for the pass. Little did I know we were still running in the lee of the mountain.
Stopping at the top for the sightsee thing we were still protected from the wind. I watched three GS1200's coming up somewhat slower than the usual Sunday morning crowd. They greeted but it was mere nods with their helmets rather than a big show of hands. We soon found out why.
The wind came howling down the Paarl side of the mountain, nearly sweeping the KLR into the culvert at one stage. The lighter Djebel also did a few dicey dances towards the edge but we eventually blew into town without mishap.
The end.
