Day 3 - The Rally, day 1

There was, actually no touring nor biking on day 3. This was the first day of the Swazi Rally. After a good breakfast and even better company, I was chauffeured to the rally site. We got our badges and pins (the reason we ride all the way, to these things), once we had wrist bands attached, we were ready for the rally. Always feels like organized chaos, to me at least. The merriment in the air was unmistakable. 

It was an atypical Swazi day, overcast and not warm. It was a typical rally day, hardly 10am and beers were merrily a-chugging. There are two kinds of people at a bike rally. Those that absolutely love and enjoy everything about a rally; and those that went on a long ride and ended up at a rally. For the latter, the ride is everything. The destination is but a rest stop before riding again. Then there are the campers. Tents of all sizes and colours, sort of arranged on the lawn in front of the castle – those who ask, well… There were more campers behind or above the castle, depending on your point of view. I don’t camp, especially at a rally. It is raucous at best, unbearable loud at worst – apparently the campers are not bothered, not one bit.

A bike rally also boasts a motley crew of characters – all kinds, all ages and all whatever else. Life on two wheels is what binds everyone. The fact that Swaziland was uncharacteristically cold, did not bother those that like to camp at the rally. I don’t camp. 

I was introduced to Stix, one of four 70 something-young okes, who I later learned were on a 40-day bike tour. The Swazi rally was apparently one of their many stops, Namibia was another – just to give some perspective. This foursome was great company over the course of the rally. Many stories under their respective belts and stories for days. Having started the 40-day epic on August 8^th, they had plenty riding days ahead and more memories to make.

The first day of the rally is generally uneventful. It is all about setting up, meeting up, reconnecting – eating and drinking. As the day grows long in the tooth, activities start. Games, competitions, misogyny and the like. I have said, the rally is a convenient stop at the end of a long ride. For some, the rally is the whole thing. The rally is also a whole ecosystem. There are all kinds of stalls, full of bikers’ paraphernalia and badges of all kinds, some not so kind. The lone biker that I am, I just had to have one that said “Independent, No Club”. Right there, a woman and her daughter had set up a sewing station, where you can get the badges sewn onto you biker jacket or waistcoat; for 40 rand/elangeni.

Then there is the Christian Bikers Association…yes, they too ride motorbikes and attend rallies. They serve coffee and save souls.

In the background to the raucous conversations, hearty laughs and back slapping; are the sounds from resident djs, pumping and pounding sounds; to which, most just tapped feet and bobbed heads. Understandably, some of us still had some bum fatigue to nurse. The later it gets, at the rally, the more unchristian everything gets. Haram, haramer and haramest. I generally ever experience the Haram-ish stage of the progression. I tend to tap out earlier than most. This time, I left a little later than usual to much compliments from my erstwhile pillion. “You know, this is the longest you have spent at the rally site”. To be fair to the kind chauffer, I sucked it up a little longer, and even enjoyed some of the PG rated goings on. Yes, it is a rally and things happen. Have you ever seen a Jameson bottle so big, it came with a stand to facilitate pouring? Yeah, that’s the rally for you.

The revving bikes outside competed with the thumping music inside. Amidst the dancing and whatever else, I took my leave.

I was told at breakfast the next morning, just how kak the strippers where. I wonder whether the members of the Christian bikers association stayed for the show, or like me, they bowed out for their evening prayers.

 

Bike Tour: Day 2

Clarens, I will be back, you were awesome! Now riding in company and a support car, we exited Clarens and pointed the bikes in the direction of another bustling metropolis, Warden. 

I am once again in a beautiful scenery of this rural country. Ok, I really missed bike touring. It’s good to be back! Just me and the open road, literally. There was a hundred or so kilometres ahead  of the 3 bikes and the support car, to our first pit stop, breakfast, etc.  By the time we reached our final destination come out we had covered close on 600 km. Some 170 km of those, turned out to be the most challenging riding I've had to do, in all the years of riding. More about that later, of course.

The ride to Warden was easy and uneventful, great start, I thought.  We were treated to small town hospitality of Warden Lodge. The farm style brekkie was great, rounded off with butter and jam on toast. The coffee, didn’t coffee though. 

We left Warden for Wakkerstroom. The trusted GPS guided us out of Warden to that second stop of the day. Out of nowhere, the road turned to gravel. I was ok to tackle the gravel, I have the bike for it. My fellow travellers were not up to that challenge. The matter was settled when a rider, who had passed us earlier, made a u-turn, further down the gravel road. It turned out that one of my fellow riders knew this fella. A local came up the gravel road and after exchanging pleasantries, asked us not to go down that road.

We heeded the advice and navigated our way, away from the gravel road. The worst was still to come. We set off in the direction of Standerton, intending to stop at Volksrust.It was not the warmest of days but at least the sun was out, cheering things up. Every time we hit shadows, the temperature would drop dramatically. Then the sun decided to take early lunch, somewhere beyond the grey clouds. When the sun next reappeared, it was sluggish, probably because of the lunch. It could as well disappear. And it did.

By the time we got to Volkrust, we were cold and the rain clouds were gathering. My bike told me that I had exactly 0km of fuel left in the tank. Well, the thing told me that some 12km before this garage. I was so relieved to be finally at a petrol station. My heart leapt into my throat when the man told us that they had run out of fuel. My heart slid back down to its place when he said the petrol station around the corner did have fuel.

We all fuelled up and had a smoke while contemplating the turning weather and what we thought was 174km to go. Not long after we hit the road, the rain finally came down. The ride was still pleasant. We then hit mist! Visibility dropped to two bike lengths. It was painfully slow going. The mist got thicker, right through the pass, with visibility now down to one bike length.

I decided to leave the now party of four fellow riders behind as the mist cleared. The next town was Piet Retief. That is all there is to say about it. I rode through and out of Piet Retief and I was finally on the last stretch to Mahamba border post. I was doing decent speed and even beginning to relax. At some point in this joyful riding, the road ended! Right ahead was the Road Closed/Detour sign. The detour was a muddy slippery road. Fortunately it was not long; I checked it out and decided it’s ok ride without dropping the 300 grams or so of the steed between my legs. Detour ended and the rain started as I rode the last stretch to the border. Cold and relieved, I guided the tiger into the Mahamba port of exit. I got my exit stamp and headed to the eSwatini arrivals side of the port. Once I was done with the passport stamping and road toll paying, it was time to wait for my party to arrive. Fortunately, the border post was closing at 22:00.

We were reunited with relief and near tears, cleared the border and stopped right after, for recounting the horror of the mist and rain and darkness and cold. The rain was persistent, so was the smoking. At this point we had triumphed, we were in eSwatini after a challenging ride – we thought. We could have not been more wrong. About a lot of things. The most challenging part of the epic ride was not behind, it was lying ahead. Worse for me, I was volunteered to lead. 

It was already dark by the time we got back on the road, no street lighting and the cats eyes were there in patches. I generally don’t mind not seeing where I’m going, not seeing where the road is going! Is another matter altogether! The anxiety was killing as I was overthinking the safety of the riding party and the support car behind me. As if these terrible riding conditions were not enough, and as we got to the mountain pass, the mist returned, with vengeance. I was not sure whether the riders behind me could see me, so I turned on the hazards. At best, I was going at 30 or so km/h. Did I mention that the distance from the border to our final destination was 80km? Well, what to you do (in Tony Soprano voice)? Stopping was not an option, one may just be taken out by a car or something. In Zohra’s words and voice, ons fok Voort. And Voort we foked. We cleared the mountain pass in the rain and mist, riding with the visor open and without the spectacles that kept fogging up, wet and riddled with anxiety. Underneath all that, was an excited boyishly enthusiastic voice saying you are doing this. There was another voice, Richard Quest’s – this is what I call living!

Another thing, the pass was also sprinkled with unmarked or poorly marked speed humps. I mean, really?! Whisky Tango Foxtrot?! Still, we rode. We eventually all made it safely to the final destination. At least my co-riders and the support car did. The fact that my accommodation booking was for the next day (long story) does not bear mentioning because this day ended with a beautiful shower and sheets white as snow. I also had a little keyboard and wifi.

Tomorrow, breakfast and then off to the Swazi Rally!