Bull of Africa 2008

Race : Bull of Africa, 2008

Location : Eastern Cape and Transkei
Date : 9 to 16 August 2008
Team : Bloed en OMO
Members : Laura Forster, Tania de Muelenaere, Jan Bezuidenhout, Abel van der Merwe.

SHORT REPORT (for the hasty)

Team Bloed en OMO reached the finish line as a full team and with only minor pains after 7 days, 3 hours and 30 minutes or so. BUT, we missed out a number of check points having been voluntarily and involuntarily short coursed.

To answer rumours that B&O were all over the place and on their own mission: this was due tracking devices apparently being swapped between teams.

We in fact clipped everything up to CP36 (Seagulls hotel) except for
(a) Two of the five CPs at the Kat River dam on account of our rowing kit being stolen midway.
(b) The two rowing CPs on the Wriggleswade dam because the police and support crews left as we arrived.
(c) The hike between CP25 and C30. Our arrival at CP24 was a cause for surprise since “according to the tracker B&O had already passed Seagulls”. The Wriggleswade episode fresh in memory, we reluctantly – as we had spent considerable time and money preparing for the ropes - decided to skip the hike (with permission from race HQ) as we were concerned that the rope crews may withdraw before we got there on the assumption that all teams were already through.

But, the harsh truth is that, despite the above short cuts, we still lacked the horsepower and were further short coursed after Seagulls.

We salute the winners and all teams who were able to complete the entire course on time – in fact we salute all the teams who threw themselves at the Bull of Africa. The challenge was relentless with no stage failing to test our resolve. I still can’t figure how Hano managed to organise rain and cold winds for the final 15 hours.

Thanks to the Ottos and their management team for a truly memorable experience. The frustration is not being to able describe it to those who could not be there.

Big thanks also go to all the support personnel. The logistics were massive and excellently executed. Napoleon would have been more successful in Russia had you been there.

Special thanks to team Energy for sharing their paddling equipment when our’s were librated and also to His People, Kubusi, Katberg, Jude of Down Under, McCain and various others who at odd moments found the time to chat and give advice. I came away from this experience feeling myself part of a special group, perhaps one can even call it a family.

Guys, I suffer from pre Alzheimers (the fact that I keep doing AR is testimony to the fact) so if I don’t recognise or greet you down the line please don’t feel affronted. The memories are there, somewhere in the old grey matter.

Lastly I must thank and praise my team members, Laura, Tania and Jan. For a group that had never raced together before – in fact not even had contact until recently and, in Jan’s case, had never done an AR before– you did splendidly.

Your perseverance, enthusiasm and cooperation under sometimes trying conditions is commendable. Each of you at various stages in your unassuming way contributed some essential effort, enthusiasm or focus that kept the team going. But, above all, I shall remember the no-nonsense and interesting way in which the team interacted.

In retrospect I think my pacing was perhaps a bit too conservative and we could have done more in the allotted. But, but I prefer to console myself with the argument that had we pushed harder we might not have finished as a full team or had such positive memories as the “Expedition” would have become a “Race”.

We gave it all we had and most certainly got a lot more back. We saw, and experienced, a variety of places of stupendous beauty. I personally am that much richer for having explored and conquered new territory within myself.

Now for the full, unadulterated bed time story :

BULL ABOUT THE BULL or TWO ELDERLY GENTLEMEN ARE TAKEN FOR A WALK IN THE ASYLUM GROUNDS BY THEIR NURSES

Surgeon general’s warning: The author agrees with Mark Twain that the truth¸ being such a precious commodity, should be used sparingly.

The team

Jan “Biltong” Bezuidenhout
Laura “Pit Pony” Forster
Tania “Donna Quixote” de Muelenaere
and Abel “Oupa” van der Merwe.



















I have often been asked why young Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat was left out of the team. The uncharitable answer is that only three strangers with no prior experience of Oupa’s unorthodox leadership and navigation style would answer the call. I personally, however, like to think that he had to be home for his daughter’s birth – which was delayed until 2:45 am 3 September.

Day Minus 3 : To East London James, and don’t spare the horses

The journey starts badly with Oupa wiping out Donna Quixote’s electric gate with Biltong’s Venter trailer.

This, together with thoughts about perhaps never seeing loved ones again, made for a sombre mood.

Oupa decides to take the team’s mind off domestics by giving a first aid briefing. Quixote, a doketela by trade, is amazed by little known gems such as “do not push dangling intestines and other visceral matter back into the body cavity” and “do not cover exposed guts with aluminium foil”. Then I notice that the other two team members are planning to abort at the next petrol station so we listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jesus Rodriquez and Arlo Guthrie CDs instead.

At the Ultra City the ladies insist on a coffee stop. While I fill up the Jeep with diesel a dilapidated Hi Ace pulls up next to me. There’s much clanking and shuddering, more fumes ooze from the semi-sealed doors than its loose exhaust. A Rastafarian, wearing dreadlocks and a greasy army coat, flings open the side door, stumbles out and before I can avoid eye contact he explains that they were heading home for Ethiopia and that they’d been stoned in Cape Town, Beaufort West and several other places. And that he was short of bread for the petrol.

Afraid to be called a xenophobe I uncharacteristically hand him a large note. For a moment I think he is going to kiss me with his full, crusty lips. Then he turns around and pulls a plastic bag with a dozen hi-bran crunchies from the minibus and hands it to me. I pack it safely in my backpack before I joined the team at the Wimpy.

Back on the road we eat some of the crunchies and the mood lifts. When John Foggerty of the CCR sings
“ I see a bad moon arising
I see trouble on the way”
it is summarily adopted as the team theme tune.

By the time we got to East London there could hardly have been more excitement and anticipation of adventure amongst of gang of 10 year olds set free on a Saturday morning with ketties, pointed sticks and pockets filled with pen knives, bits of string and favourite pebbles; parent’s warnings of “moenie k#k aanjaag nie” long forgotten.

DAYS -2 and -1 : Final preparations



These are spent packing, re-packing and trying to figure out 15 different maps - and being tested on the ropes. Eventually we decide to sort the route out en route and fall down exhausted just before midnight.

I dream.

Amazing has apparently overcome his rejection and is prepared to divulge this amazing strategy based on the science of statistics.

It’s called the Contrarian Game Play. It works like this –listen carefully as I will only repeat it once and besides you need to be sharp witted to latch on to its maniacal implications.

The basic idea is to determine the average of the mob and to do the exact opposite.

Imagine you have 42 teams of whom one team decides to adopt the contrary navigation strategy then
a) Scenario A
In the, however unlikely, event of the contrary team being correct then the remaining 41 teams are obviously heading the wrong way. And, since they are together they are likely to take confidence from one another and stay lost for even longer.
b) Scenario B
But, if our contrary team happens to be wrong then, on average, all is still ok since this represents a 96% success rate. Imagine the government’s joy if the matric pass rate was even half that!

For good measure he quotes from the Bible (Mark 5 v13) the Gaderene swine law that states : The mere fact that the group is in formation does not mean that they are sane or heading in the right direction.

Never before, at least not before our Olympics committee unveiled their Excellence Plan after the Athens Olympics, has there been a plan so guaranteed of success.

Flawless. Diabolical. As they say : “age and treachery will overcome youth and innocence”

So when the start gun goes off Bloed en OMO unpack their gas burner and various other bits of cutlery and brew a cup of tea, while they wait for the others to commit to their folly. When the last notes of the Chariots of Fire die away they nonchalantly pick up their kit and amble off in the contrary direction. Ha!

And it works. Hours later, as the sun is setting, there is still no other team in sight. Clearly, of the two statistical possibilities, it had to be Scenario A since had it been Scenario B then we would on statistical average have expected to see one or two of the others.

Then we hit the outskirts of East London and the team behaves badly. The captain can tell from the curvature of their necks that there was dissent in the ranks. At this stage he begins to wonder if there maybe wasn’t some malicious intent in this Amazing game plan.

Team focus and admiration is restored when they are convincingly told that they will move faster tomorrow because their fitness level had been improved somewhat by today’s little excursion.

The 1 am alarm rings and we rush to catch the bus for a three hour + drive to the start somewhere in the Amatola foothills.


DAY 1: The opening skirmish
Leg 1 : 12 km trail run
Leg 2 : 22km mtb
Leg 3 : 20 km row/hike rogaine about Kat River dam
Leg 4: 24 km mtb to Hoggsback

As usual, when the race starts all the other teams rush off – as Pit Pony neatly puts it – like stabbed rats. Sadly, Bloed en OMO yet again follow the mob. Worse still, against all logic, we even run with the hounds.

Despite failing to maintain the “trail trot” up to CP1 on Branderskop we make the Kat River dam by mid afternoon with plenty of daylight to spare for some easy CPs around the dam. At sunset, after clipping the third CP, we arrived back at our canoes to discover that the People’s Liberation Army, flushed with their success at Cuito Carneval, had liberated our paddles, PFDs and various items of cheap and easy to replace AR gear. (Estimated replacement cost R 10 000 plus)

We are saved by team 12 (Energy), who share their rowing kit with us. Thanks guys.

Hours and two CPs short, we set off on our bikes for Hoggsback. It is uphill and uphiller so we take a break for a hot meal at (CP8) where our Tracker announces its demise. Later we hear from our little band of supporters back home that the tracker placed us all over the place during the 7 days much to their concern and amazement.

A couple of times we stop, switch off all lights and just gaze in amazement at the blackness of the sky and multitude of stars whose brightness, despite the almost full moon, surpasses what we as city dwellers are accustomed to.

DAY 2 : A Frolic in the Fynbos or a Ramble in the Bramble
Leg 5 : 80 km hike (it could have been further) – first section

It is a miserable and cold sweated little team that pushes their bikes into CP9 at Hoggsback just after midnight. Whilst we enviously eye other teams huddled against (some even under) the fiery braai drums we dismantle and pack our bikes in the wet and cold.

Eventually we find a spot for our sleeping bags on an open cement slab and settle down for some sleep. I munch a crunchie for energy against the cold.

Moments later Omar Khayyam ambles over from the braai fires, opens his Rubaiyat and reads :

AWAKE! For Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light

But, before he gets further than the first verse I am rudely awakened by Donna’s alarm.

I attempt to stall getting out my cosy bed by briefing the team on the schedule for today and tomorrow but I am stopped short :

Quixote: “ If you don’t get up we’ll be doing today tomorrow”
Oupa, in a moment of lucidity : “But, we are already doing yesterday today”

Einstein could hardly have summed up time and relativity more clearly.

Suitably motivated, and confident with the thought that the world could never end today because it is already tomorrow in Australia, we set off on an 80 km hike up and down (multiple times) the escarpment and over various little hills.

For the next two days Pit Pony is in her element– I have to convince her that we can’t do it at the trot. Donna Quixote shows not a sign of weariness – in fact I think she never exceeded 80% effort level throughout the race. Biltong, our work horse, performs like Major of Animal Farm. Oupa brings up the rear, dragging his feet and moaning. He clings to the maps as his guarantee of not being left behind.

The hike starts with a quick two hour clamber up the mountainside to CP 10 below the Kettlespout waterfall. Because of dense forestation and confusing signs this takes us hours despite some useful tips from Fred Richardson. At least we didn’t end at the top of the falls like so many others.

After a quick caucus with team His People, who kept on crossing our path to the very end of the Bull despite our best efforts to loose them, we scuttle off on a short cut to the Amatola trail and promptly end up on a road that insists on heading in the wrong direction.

( Let me let you on to something. Had Oupa been the Columbus’s navigator on the Nina, Pinta and Daihatsu we would probably have discovered Easter Island via the Straights of Magellan - which would obviously now be known as the Straights of van der Merwe - blissfully ignorant of the Americas, North and South. Indeed, even the CP in Australia would have been evasive. )

After a few corrections we steam ahead. We hike. And we hike. Then we hike some more and when we are tired of hiking we walk for a while. All the while my feet burn with increasing intensity.

But we pass through cultivated forests, farmlands, open veld, rolling hills and feel privileged to be out there enjoying the enormous vistas and fresh air.

Eventually we loop onto the Amatola trail and find that for once a plan has worked. We have caught up with what appears to be the middle of the field. The mountainside is littered with teams picking their way up through boulders and dongas in their quest for inconsistent trail markers.

Jubilant we stop, unpack our mobile kitchen and put together a hot meal fit for a king as we watch the suckers struggle. Our game pattern has been established. All we need to do is repeat today’s neat navigation daily and we’ll keep up with the hounds with minimal effort.

With the sun setting we set off once more and promptly loose the trail. It is dark by the time we hit the final 1 km downhill to CP10 at the hut.

Disaster. We bear left into what appears, in the setting sun, to be the smoother route and discover that there are indeed a 101 dongas but that they have been visually smoothed over by dead fynbos, heather, brambles and other plants of mean and unrelenting character varying in height from 1 to 3 m.

The team members call for a toilet break which is to be of dubious execution because, as the cowboys say, it was a “don’t squat with yer spurs on” type situation.

While we wait, I feel the blood gently trickle down my shins, eat a crunchie and gaze at the starry starry night whilst old Omar appears again. He has now progressed to stanza 33 :

Then to the rolling Heav’n itself I cried
Asking, “What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?”
And—“A blind Understanding!” Heav’n replied.

A short while later I discover that an attachment to my rucksack, containing food and various other important items, has been ripped off at some unknown point. We stop, focus (to stop me from howling), and on the second backtrack I find it, despite its blackness, skulking under the dense vegetation. A small, undeserved, miracle.

We travel the 1 km in almost 3 hours, hacking a path that even today must surely be visible on Google Earth.

I console myself that this is a minor blunder compared to the decision in 1348-49 by the Scots army to invade an apparently weakened England during the time of the Black Death.

At Cato hut, Oupa takes one look at the roaring fire in the pizza oven and realises that he must get the team out of here fast for this be a den of temptation and iniquity. A man could loose his soul and much else here. A quick cuppacino (yes – Bloed en OMO travel in style – we had cuppacinos and hot chocolates throughout the 7 days) and Quixote cracks the whip and we’re out of there.

It is almost 2 days before we see another team - at Wriggleswade dam - although we did come across the some debris from a broken team at Thomas River (CP14).

In the meantime the Amatola trail is tackled with a vengeance. We steam past all sorts of interesting places in the indigenous forest. In the dark our torch beams scan over dozens of streams, pools, viewpoints and waterfalls – but our eyes are focussed on finding the evasive trail markers. Up and down, up and down. Disconcerting is the lack of spoor left by other teams.

The internet claims that the Amatola is the most beautiful trail in the RSA. I like to believe that this is indeed so– it had to be otherwise no sane person would hike such a route painting yellow feet on the rocks at whim.

After midnight, having failed to find the Forest Station, our planned midway point, we sleep a few hours on a bed of pine needles.

I lie on my back avoiding thoughts about how cold I am. I have underpants whose material offers more warmth than this ultra-light sleeping bag. As for the fit. Well, Pit Pony only has this ¾ length AR sleeping bag – but she’s so short she gets in and pulls the cord tight above her head. Donna is likewise so skraal she can dance a tango in her bag. But for Oupa and Biltong the fit is so tight we look like a pair of cat turds.

In a twisted way I am glad for a bit of dehydration as it means I won’t have to get up for a P in the cold.

I reward myself with a crunchie and think about my wife and how much she would have liked being with us and the intense joy she gets from being in the wilderness. And we could even zip our sleeping bags together so I could invade her space.

I look at the shafts of bright moonlight breaking through the forest. They slowly sweep over the four pathetic little bundles while the earth slowly turns and I listen to Aker Bilk playing several romatic melodies on his clarinet. I slip into a solid sleep which is broken moments later by the beep on Donna’s watch. Polar would be well advised to offer more interesting wake up tunes.

Day 3 : Over Mount Thomas (1800 m)
Leg 5 : 80 km hike - continued

We continue along the Amatola trail and this time are able, after a short stretch of pine forest, to the appreciate the dense indigenous forest, mountain ranges and deep valley vistas. But, we fail to find a crucial spilt and are forced away from our carefully planned approach to CP12. Just before the trail takes us down the escarpment once more for some compulsory natural beauty we decide enough is enough and follow our own instincts over the ridge via Mount Thomas to CP12 on Mount Kubusi.

But first we have to find our way across some extensive vleis (wetlands) – right at the top of the escarpment. The next time some greenie attempts to coerce my signature or money to save some vlei or other I shall be hard pressed not to do him a damage. There is nothing romantic about crossing a vlei.

Due to low water supplies we are forced to take a sub-optimal crossing through the valley instead of across the Kubusi neck . We find some puddles and streams where we scoop our bottles full, carefully avoid cattle dung and other fauna & flora. Surely, what is safe for a dung beetle must be safe for a human? And do we not also carry, and will continue to carry for the full seven days, all our worldly goods on our backs?

At about this time I become aware that something rancid and malodorous is following me. Something like a mixture of fresh dog turd, festering rat corpse and laundry basket. Fear clutches at my throat. I keep glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see a hyena but there is nothing. Worse, by lagging at the back I am breaking the cardinal rule of survival in hostile territory – don’t be the last man in the column Then I realise that it’s only my shadow. It shall be given a good soak in the OMO when I get home.

Just before CP 12 both girls get nose bleeds. Luckily I am allowed to ignore this as I recall the first aid manual saying that “do not prevent a nose or ear from bleeding if you suspect a head injury”. Anybody who does the Bull must surely have banged their heads solidly sometime or other.

As we walk I contemplate that we had planned to go two days between food boxes. This was the end of the third day and we still had a way to go before the first of our three food boxes. Our rations for tomorrow would be a Royco cup-a-soup and a tea bag to suck.

I know, without having to look into their eyes, that the others are thinking the same thoughts. Earlier Pit Pony had spied a lone, what she calls “a perfectly good Nik Nak” lying in the path and had popped it in her mouth without so much as offering to share it four ways.

I also have good reason to suspect that they must surely also be thinking that, in the interests of the survival of the species, someone may have to be sacrificed. The question is: could they also have concluded that it could not be one of the ladies as they are both hard as nails and that Biltong is not very appetising either on account of his appearing to have been cut from Lance Armstrong’s calf muscle?

So I keep a wary eye and resolve to confiscate their knives as soon as they sleep.

Just after dark we stumble into a farm yard but fail to find any sign of life other than some – fortunately - fenced off dogs. There’s a cold wind and we decide the best spot for a bit of sleep is under a Toyota bakkie – which being a Toyota and not a Land Rover – has no oil leaks.

Just as I rev up a deep snore the cops arrive. Fortunately they have been briefed about the legitimacy of various bands of vagabonds in the area and are easily satisfied. They come back later with four sets of kebabs and cokes. Biltong and Oupa waste no time in cancelling theirs from the cosmic inventory. The girls prefer to clutch them – the kebabs not the cops - as hot water bottles. Ag shame!

At midnight we are surrounded by electric lights and a looming figure that commands “ get out of there – no excuses - you’re sleeping in the house”. So we drag our sorry assess into the house for a bath and few hours sleep under duvets. Luckily for us Doep Kruger had to feed some orphan lambs during the night.

Day 4 : A Dam too Far
Leg 5 : 80 km hike – finished at last
Leg 6 : 78 km mtb
Leg 7 : 40 km row/trek around Wriggleswade dam (missed)

Up at 3 am to discover that Doep has a breakfast of boerewors ready. We absorb his careful instructions on how to get to CP13 at the bottom corner of his farm – and manage within 5 minutes of departure to miss an obvious signpost. 30 minutes later we are back on track and we pick up the pace again.

At one stage, as we pass though a herd of sheep, a lamb mistakes Pit Pony for his mother. Lucky for him we had been well fed by Doep so we are willing to spend some time re-uniting the family. Ouma says it is not nice for me to say that Pit Pony probably smelt like its mother so I won’t. At least she didn’t smell like a hyena.

Despite Doep’s breakfast we tackle the food box at the Thomas River settlement - just a few quaint museum type buildings - like a pack of hounds. Within minutes a large, hot stew, tinned guavas, custard and other delicacies disappear into distended stomachs whilst bikes are assembled and rucksacks packed to bursting with padkos and fresh water.

I clean all the litter out my pockets and discover the last crunchie which I had been hiding for an emergency. It is not wasted.

Back on the bikes we breeze out of town at a brisk pace as it is mostly downhill.

So brisk that I find myself flying whilst the ET sound track echoes around me. I am quite disappointed to see that the team could not fly so high. In fact, judging by the dust clouds at their wheels they hadn’t even taken off. I receive strange looks when I encourage them to ride higher.

Waiting for the gang at the next little hill I whip out the old compass for a quick check and decide that the 90 degree disagreement could only be due to a kink in the road. But, the little pot bellied Extra Terrestrial sitting in the bike grocery basket points his knobbly little finger in the direction of Thomas River. I ignore him as he obviously does not know the rule about no phoning home. Off again.

Then there’s an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as the mountain landscape becomes familiar and I know that just around the next corner lies Doep’s farm. There is only one word to describe this. But, I shall refrain from using it.

An hour and untold kilojoules later we find the turn off just outside Thomas River. It’s a shitty little jeep track last used by the 1820 Settlers and the odd sheep thief since, yet the map indicates a road almost rivalling the N6.

But its plain sailing from here on – if one ignores several nasty little climbs. At the base of the worst of them I feel low on energy and remember the zip loc bag with the remaining crunchie crumbs and pour them down my throat.

Moments later, energy restored I effortlessly tick the hill off my “to do” list.

Just as I crest the hill composer/conductor John Williams flicks his baton and the full New York Philharmonic orchestra, with not smudge or a crease in their tuxedos, break into the opening bars of the Star Wars theme. Rousing stuff. Heroic in fact. I lean on the handle bars and feel strong. Strong enough to take on Gengis Khan and his entire horde – never mind Darth Vader and his light stick. In fact had they asked, I would have pedalled that hill one more time. Fortunately, everyone in the orchestra, most of all the tuba and double-bass players, understood what that entailed so they kept quiet.

I lie, it wasn’t the New York Philharmonic. It was Symfonia Juventi or maybe the Afrikaans Hoer Symfonieorkes. Almost as smart, bar the odd outburst of pimples and scuffed shoes. But their music is on par – indeed more special as Little Sh*t, my son and co-founder of Bloed en OMO, is playing in the brass section.

While they play I gaze out over the rolling, grass covered hills and distant mountains and try to remember everything I can see and hear. When the last notes die down I turn around to find the orchestra gone. The next moment the team crests the hill.

When I tell them about the orchestra and all, there are some hurtful mutterings about the elderly and their ability to handle “ganja transkeii”.

I raise myself to a haughty length, clip in and hit the downhill, forgetting that the brake pads need servicing. Later as the team stands in awe of my downhill daring-do I maintain a nonchalant air.

We pass through several villages, ruins and neat farms. Just before dusk we stumble into the clubhouse at the Wriggleswade dam. We are in time to see the SAPS emergency crew depart. Two minutes later, whilst we are trying to establish if there are any replacement paddles and PFDs for us, the truck departs with the canoes.

Somewhat dehydrated and demoralized I pull out the maps and plan the next stage which includes a night time crossing of the Kubusi river and I worry. What if it’s a raging torrent? Am I prepared to get wet through? Although it has been getting progressively warmer as we descend from the mountains, it is still cold. And, we haven’t brought our ingenious bike flotation devices intended for the lower Kei crossing.

Quixote fixes the dehydration with a brew and then rallies the team. Semi-refreshed we discuss the options and decide that our priorities remain to do the full seven days, clip the CPs as they come and make it to the finish line as a team. The medics offer us their beds (thanks guys – you obviously could see our dire need) and we sleep till midnight when Donna Q once again, in her quiet way, cracks the whip.

Day 5 : To the Kei via the Kubusi
Leg 8 : 55 km mtb
Leg 9 : 45 km hike with ropes (replaced by 36 km mtb) to lodge

Spirits restored we are off again on a fast MTB ride to the Kubusi. Included in the price, for free, we get some great down hills to the river. At one stage I wait, with my light off, for Pit Pony – MTB is not her forte – to catch up and hear her mumbling and shrieking her way across all manner of ditches and boulders. I still feel bad about the way we forced her beyond her zone.

Using the very useful instructions from the farmer’s wife at CP 23 – who’s waiting patiently for us at 3 am - we cross the ankle deep Kubusi river well before dawn - just in time to see team Dew Point, who apparently were three hours ahead of us at the farm house, cresting the mountain on the other side. A 20 minute climb according to Mrs Farmer – if you don’t carry a rucksack or bike.

We decide to wait for sunrise and strike up a merry little flame on our portable stove and Oupa burns the noodles.

First light reveals the extent of the climb. Just as Biltong and Oupa prepare to throw in the towel Quixote hoists her bike on her shoulder and walks up the hill in her biking shoes. Carramba! We follow with bruised male egos.

At the crest I turn my back to the now risen sun and look back over the river, the rocky cliffs and the vast valley stretching out in the pink light. Surely one of the most beautiful sights in all of Africa if not the world. I yearn for Ouma, with her innocent joy and enthusiasm for life and all its facets, to share and absorb this moment.

If she were there I am sure that the rest of the team would not have minded being sent on ahead to give us opportunity to frolic in the stream and afterwards dry off in a patch of sunlight on the flat rocks while Captain Correli and his supporting orchestra (all blindfolded) played his mandolin. Just the inspiration Omar Khayyam would have needed to write verse 11:

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

A lump of cheese or a ripe tomato would also be most welcome.

We push on. Way up in the mountains, amongst the thorn bushes, we find paths heavy with MTB spoor – like a migration of linear wildebeest. Then we head for Kubusi Lodge (CP24) where we are greeted with “according to the Tracker, Blood & OMO are already at Seagulls”. Fantastic.
Fearing another Wriggleswade dam scenario we change our strategy and get permission from race HQ decide to skip the hike. And miss the best part of the whole Bull. Water replenished we head to CP25 where Box B waits patiently for us like an alcoholic’s wife.

But first we must push & carry our bikes down a massive downhill and push them up onto the plateau again – where Biltong almost gets wiped out by a gang of unruly bontebok and Donna Q mistakes a herd of wildebeest for the dreaded buffalo.

At the almost deserted CP25 (Clifton Grange Lodge) we have another feast in the high wind before we head for CP30 via Komga.

Just before CP30 (Mpotshane Lodge) we come across Johan Els senior who offers us beds at his son’s farmhouse on the bank of the Kei. But first we restore the cosmic entropy levels by deleting several steaks and hamburgers at the lodge. The first stage of Leg 10 is tackled with enthusiasm and at 11 pm we clock in at the farm for a luxury sleep.

Day 6 : Transing the Transkei
Leg 10 : 135 km (or more – Hano thinks its less but he obviously does not have the benefit of Oupa’s navigation skills) MTB over the upper Kei, crisscrossing the Transkei and ending at Mazeppa bay on the Wild Coast.

Chased up at 5 by, you guessed it, DQ. The aches in my dolosse foretell that this was going to unfold into an important day. In a philosophical mood I encourage the team with the observation that the day after tomorrow would be the third day of the rest of our lives.
















As we work our way out of the Kei gorge I realise why this day would be important. It will go down in history as the day that the first white man crossed the Transkei – pushing a #$%^&@ bicycle. I am just waiting for the official invitation to give a presentation of our exploits to the Royal Geographical Society to arrive and I shall be packing the old trunks

But, the prize for determination must go to Pit Pony who tackled every hill as if it were her last. In fact, I hereby rename her Pit Bull.

Allow me tell you about the Transkei. In fact, let me quote from my Std 7 geography notes :
Transkei, Rep. of
Pop 250 000 (I was at school a long time ago)
Chief export : Topsoil (old Chrome Dome, our teacher, apparently had a sense of humour)

Which explains why the landscape is as wrinkled as an elephants scrotum. Not a single stretch of level ness to rest the legs. Not the sort of neighbourhood you want to be pushing a baby in a pram.

Clearly, a side effect of this topsoil erosion has been an imbalance in the southern African tectonic plate – hence Namibia has sunk lower and the Transkei has risen up so that its coastline is characterised by cliffs and boulders. Great for coffee table books but not so healthy for MTB. And, the rivers, in a desperate bid to avoid being tilted into the Orange rive cachement, have clawed ever deeper scars into the scrotum.

So the strategy is to follow the “main” roads that purportedly follow the the crests. But the roads are severely “undulating”. What a euphemism. Jeez man, why can’t we call a spade a shovel. More significant is that the CPs are on different roads separated by river gorges and they apparently only link up at some distant point way beyond the reach of our maps. So we are twice forced to cut across ravines of immense proportions.

At out first attempt, on the way to CP32, we are caught by a photographer as we head to the edge of a deep valley. The #$@&* photographer just takes pictures and won’t give any clue as to whether this is the best (or only) place to cross or not. So we back off and retry further toward the coast and are successful despite some really bad advice given by an old man demanding tobacco money. It is only later when we get to the long ago deserted store at Ncerana that we realise why, whenever, we ask the locals for the “best” route to the shop at Ncerana, they respond with “mad mlungu” facial expressions.

Luckily, when we are faced with a similar situation between CP32 and CP 33, team Kubusi are there with a flawless command of Xhosa and we make the crossing without hesitation.

But it is all very beautiful. Many a tourist would pay top dollar for what we experienced, and the best was yet to come.

After CP 33 we decide that the shortest route to CP 34 at Mazeppa would to head for the coast at Cebe and then take an easy 12km ride along the beach. This takes some two hours on account of boulders, soft sand and the onset of night. Also, the free wheel mechanism in my bike cassette begins to play up.

En route I discover a mangled mass of foil wrapped cheese wedges in my pocket. After flicking off the accumulation of crumbs, sand and fluff I pop the whole blob in my mouth and chew/suck out the juicy stuff. Each time the foil strikes a filling, a soothing shock goes through me – soothing because it takes my attention away from my feet.

Let me explain. By this stage my feet had the distended shape, colour and consistency of a parrot’s tongue and the soles felt as though they were de-laminating. The thought still raises shudders.

The foot pain was equalled by that the entire region around my fufi-njol – that (as pointed out by Quixote’s varsity professor) most intelligent of muscles that can distinguish, even if blindfolded, between solid, liquid and gas. It gets progressively worse over the next two days. Aaaeeeeiiiiii !

But the beach walk/ride in the full moonlight is stupendous. In a perverted way I am glad Ouma is not there as I just don’t have the blood sugar levels for any amorous stuff.

















Day 7 : A moonlight walk on the beach
Leg 11 : 35 km beach hike to Seagulls hotel

We transition inefficiently while we wipe out Box C and waste the chance for a sleep. There is no sign of the bike repair crew. In fact we missed them throughout the race on account of our being so far behind.

At midnight we strike out from Mazeppa vaguely hoping to make the newly announced cut-off.

How many people have had the privilege to do this hike, which is magnificent at the worst of times, under a full moon? But I spend my time trying to work out schemes to walk with eyes closed. They all fail. Several times I am saved from disappearing into the sea like the Australian prime minister did in the 1970s.

Excluding a 2 hour sleep in the pathway (we wake up with team His People’s footprints all over us) it takes almost 9 hours which means that we are short coursed to the finish.
















At Nxaxo mouth I pop into the hotel toilet and loose a bit of time looking for a suitable bush until I realised that it is not a pre-requisite. Afterwards I hold the soap up against my nose and have visions of Ouma, baby blankets and all sorts of softness. For good measure I spay some pine scented toilet freshener under the pits and stride out feeling good. For the first time in days the team allowed me within 5 m of their personal space.

By this time Biltong has taken on a haggard demeanour and is beginning to look much like a Yeti. With his grey stubble together with the thick ring of sun screen around his enflamed lips he epitomises some heavy drinking at the Cape Carnival. I can’t fail to laugh each time I look at him. Funny thing is, every time he looks at me he breaks into laughter too.






















The two ladies, on the contrary, still look fresh despite saltpetre patches on their flanks.

Mid-afternoon, fat with hamburgers and chips, we chase ourselves out of the Seagulls transition and head, at a brisk pace, for the Kei ferry crossing where we catch up with team Falke Sportswear from the Netherlands.

On one of the longer uphills a man drives his bakkie in reverse next to me for several minutes – after I explain that I can’t stop on an uphill on account of the broken cassette – while he gives detailed route instructions. This epitomises the extent to which all sorts of people on the way gave their full support.

We get to Morgan’s bay at sunset and decide there’s time and motivation for a pizza at the hotel. Pit Bull and Donna fall asleep at the table and Oupa steals their pizza while Biltong maintains a far away look. Shame, he clearly longs for his wife too. Then the rain starts. Team His People arrive and they reveal a navigational option we hadn’t even considered. We book two rooms and decide to sleep until 3 or the rain stops. At 5 am the rain is, if anything, worse. But we are tough and unbroken of spirit.

Back on our steeds we head for Haga Haga. It is cold and the problem with the bike cassette gets worse and worse and requires some wild spinning to engage each time I mount – which is rough on the fufi-njol.

Day 8 : Finish

At Haga Haga we are further short coursed and make the finish line in seven days plus three and half hours. My bike cassette gives its final snort 50m before the end.

A few hundred meters ahead of us are His People but we are too tired to catch up for some final navigational advice.

I sort of expected an orchestra playing the theme music from Raiders of the Lost Ark – nothing else could have been more appropriate. Sadly they were absent. From this and the debris of other teams I assumed that it could only be because we had come in a bit late. But Hano and his team were there.

Epilogue

Some statistics :

Injuries : None other than wear and tear
Flat tyres : Nil
Bicycle failures : One
Rivers and streams crossed : 3 hundred and twenty three (all but two were shallow)
Fences & gates traversed : 44 thousand give or take a few
Number of times on and off the saddle: 2 to the power of 456
Number of navigation errors or corrections : Every second one
Number of MTB falls : Personally 3 (two headfirst into the chain rings while carrying the #$%& thing over wet boulders)
Places of stupendous beauty seen : Miljuns and miljuns
Places of stupendous beauty appreciated at the time : Very few. But I have them in stored in the grey cells and shall dust them of one day on the stoep of the old age home.

In retrospect I think we could probably have saved at least a day and a half, and hence done more of the course, by pushing a bit harder, resting a bit less and, most importantly, navigating more effectively.

But, I think old Omar sums it all up quite well (verse 55):

The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: not all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.