Location : Swaziland
Distance : Plenty
Date : 2 to 4 May
Team : Bloed en OMO
Members : Abel van der Merwe, Joseph “Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” Oosthuizen
Support crew : Connie "First Second" van der Merwe, Noelle "second Second" Oosthuizen
A PARTLY TRUE TALE OF THE MISADVENTURES OF AN OLD LUNATIC AND HIS SIDEKICK IN THE AFRICAN WILDERNESS (THE WHOLE TRUTH BEING TOO GHASTLY TO CONTEMPLATE)
So Swazi Extreme did Bloed en Omo last weekend. Yes, you read correctly.
There used to be a TV repair shop in Durbs with a hand painted sign proudly announcing : : “Proprietor : V Govender. BSc, U. of Bombay (failed) “.
In similar spirit we proudly announce : “Bloed en OMO, Swazi Extreme (Unofficial)”
Prologue
There are sceptics, my wife included, who are of the opinion that there is a certain class of human, predominantly male, who are at their happiest when they are miserable. The greater the hardship, the cold and wet, the darkness, the lacerations and scabs, the moments of focussed fear and general exhaustion the closer they are to nirvana.
SX 2008 was initiated with a torrential downpour, icy winds swept the campsites, my legs have more lacerations than a Manila Easter parade, I performed multiple in-elegant MTB dismounts, my right elbow (the one I always fall on) has scabs on top of scabs, we were disoriented again and again, we made multiple stupid decisions, there were massive holiday queues at the Swazi border and traffic jams on the N4. The list goes on.
SX 2008 was clearly an unmitigated success.
Even the cool, cloudy conditions and my consequent absence of dehydration and sunburn could not detract from the tribulations and sheer misery of the three days. Another potentially spoiling factor was the friendliness and camaraderie of the many teams that shared different portions of our epic journey. Luckily they compensated for this by seducing us into some pretty k*k navigation decisions. Thanks and greetings to you all.
Enough philosophy. The report.
Pre-Race
Reality sinks in whilst our two seconds nonchalantly knit baby booties (the genuine, whole truth) – which I like to think is the reason why, as with Swazi 2006, the other competitors do not take team Bloed en OMO too seriously.
Meanwhile the intrepid adventurers inspect their kit.
“Joseph het jy die kompas gepak?” (Translated into Swazi colonial wa wa : Joseph, my son-in-law, abductor of my youngest daughter from the protection of my roof, did you remember to pack a compass?
“ Ja Pa” (Translated : Ja Pa”)
“ Can you read it?”
“Er, ja well. ………but it doesn’t write so lekker Pa”
“What do you mean it doesn’t write?”
“The pencil point is broken Pa ”
“What pencil?
“The one clamped to the arm opposite to the arm with the pointy thing Pa”
My wife, First Second, digs her nails into the inside of my upper arm (which I instantly recognise from 30 plus years of marriage as a subtle hint to shut up). His, wife, Second Second, clutches her pregnant belly with both hands and gives her bread-winner a doe eyed gaze of admiration. Latter she informs us that she was actually covering her first-to-be-borne’s ears as there would be plenty of time later for oupa, and especially ouma, to expand the horizons of her vocabulary.
Myself, I just raise my eyes to the distant mountains - soon to be populated by a fanatic horde with crumpled maps and rucksacks full of marmite sandwiches and unnecessary compulsory gear - and I thinks to myself “what a wonderful world”.
Actually I am thinking : Shall I wait for the tubing section and puncture his tube with my “readily available knife” (compulsory item), or sabotage his 20m rope (another compulsory item) or wait till much later and do a Hansie en Grietjie and leave him in the wildness? Then I realise that it’s too late for saving the gene pool, and besides, he’s just set up the mother of all adventure races. This is the stuff of real living.
Jokes aside, we did pack a real compass. In fact we had two and Amazing was most adept at navigating – except when it really mattered.
Day 1 :
T0 to T1 : Run (?) plus Tubing (cancelled)
The pre-dawn start sees the immediate breakdown of my well constructed strategy. The mob breaks up into two groups heading in entirely different directions. I hesitate for a moment to think who do we follow now and then the dilemma resolves itself. Within moments only the left hand group of lights is still visible. So we follow soon realising that this group represents the amateurs. We spend the next hour running around like headless chickens.
Consequently, the sun hasn’t even come up yet and a marshal has the temerity to suggest that, in accordance with instructions from Darron, team Bloed en Omo should cease to do Optional Points and get on with finishing the race in as straight a line as possible. Could she not see from the scratches on my legs (thicket of thorn bushes on the way to OP3), the doringdraad cuts on my back and the jaunty angle of my rucksack that she was dealing with a seasoned AR?
Right there I decide that we would show them a thing or two : we would go one better and bypass some CPs. Again I did not think things through – a cardinal rule of AR. This folks, explains why Bloed en OMO fall in the “unofficial finishers” category. You may ignore the malicious rumours about us being out of our league.
T1 to T2 : MTB
Tra-la-la. We catch up somewhat and are treated to mid-morning tea and hot macaroni and cheese by our seconds.
T2 to T3 : Trek via infamous Boulder Avenue
We spend a while looking for “Boulder Avenue” – there being at least three candidates, which is why we overshoot up the mountain and have to retreat a number of contour lines. We know we have the right one –because it is the meanest of them all (Darron never disappoints) and, mainly, because it is covered from bottom to top (which is way, way up there) with ant-like specks.
It is difficult to describe this obstacle so I won’t. Maybe one of the other reports will do justice to this awesome geological feature. Let me just say there is enough granite for a pyramid or three. Or to put it differently, had such tablets been available on Mt Sinai, Moses would have returned with more than 10 commandments. Goodbye sex, brandewyn en coke and various minor vices.
Anyway, Amazing shoots up the never ending stream of car and house sized boulders like a Dassie. This is clearly his hidden forte. I follow as best I can – until a piece of boulder, that’s been waiting millions of millennia for me, crumbles and I plummet vertically down a crevice. I can hear the pulverising of the lemon creams in my pack. Eventually I come to a stop. Its dark and cool. Deep below the river Styx gurgles. I worry about the fact that I hadn’t sharpened my knife. (Remember the apparently true story about the lone climber who’s arm got stuck between two boulders and he eventually had to amputate it at the elbow using his knife). Above me stands Technicolor. For a moment I fear that he will try lasso me with the 20m rope and that it will loop around my neck. He smiles - he always smiles – reaches down and pulls me out by the fingers.
Hours later when Dreamcoat runs out of steam we slow down and notice that we are completely alone. Later we hear that everybody else had moved sideways and ambled up a shepherd’s path after clipping the FP.
So we are yet another hour and plenty, plenty energy behind schedule.
I leave boulder avenue with a blood blister the size of a grape on my heel. I nurse this so that it can last until I can use it to gif the grandkids.
Amazing begins to show signs of another Barberton collapse. But, there are no medics and besides we don’t know where in the hell we are. So I slow down and I give him some of my chocolates and biltong. The thought that the old man cares perks him up no end.
T3 to T4 : Trek ( a moerse one) plus Kloofing (luckily cancelled)
We are resuscitated by some tender loving care from our seconds and shoot like bats out of hell after the other teams. Only when we are committed to their folly do I remember that we had planned a much more efficient route.
The hike is massive and sub-optimally executed. We arrive at T4 as the sun disappears.
T4 to T5 : MTB through the villages
What could have been a quick trip during daylight hours turns out to be a navigational nightmare as there are uncharted roads all over the place – all appearing equally important in the night - and the locals readily supply any answer they think we seek.
Somehow we end up in a parallel universe in which everything on the map bar the transition point matches our observations. Eventually we break back into the correct layer of the space-time continuum. This requires dragging our bikes up an embankment through fences and a solid wall of weeds and creepers. Don’t believe the SciFI movies –space portals are not fast and smooth going or illuminated by multi-color light streaks. There was some rainbow language though.
After almost six hours on this stage we stumble upon T5 and I celebrate by falling flat into a pool of mud. Our seconds ignore this as they are somewhat excited about having driven into a collapsed section of road and ended up with the front section of the Jeep dangling over a hillside. Attempts to get out the vehicle only caused it to tilt further into the darkness. Luckily other seconding vehicles on the scene immediately summed up the situation and pulled them to safety with ropes (compulsory equipment for seconds). Thanks guys.
T5 to T6 : Short trek
T6 to T6 : Night Trek (another moerse one)
It is past midnight. Bloed en OMO go “unofficial” and retire to T6.
We spend the few remaining hours in camp. It is bitterly cold and First Second denies me access to her sleeping bag on the grounds that I am covered in mud and that conjugal activities are excluded by the race rules. I can’t find the marshal to confirm the latter so I admit defeat and sulk.
I dream. Against instructions we short-cut though the kloof and are thwarted by a cliff. After a few seconds I show my leadership qualities and make a quick decision - we shall throw our 20m rope – a lovely red and white one purchased at Builders Warehouse with only a few frayed spots- over that bonsai shrub way up there and haul ourselves up and over. I give the one end to Amazing to hold and wrap the other end -having forgotten all those beautiful knots they taught at climbing school - several times around a boulder. I give it a massive hurl and it rises, acquiring a nice spin as the rope unfurls. At its apogee it pauses momentarily in the firmament. Motionless, serene, moon like. Then it hurtles back, ever faster, a lump of space debris. Amazing claims he sees flames around the outer edges as it re-enters the atmosphere. Once again I remain cool and collected and think about the options. Should I nudge Technicolor off the ledge to give myself room to manoeuvre? Maybe not considering that he is holding onto the other end of the rope. Then it is upon us. And Dreamcoat – bless him – head butts the meteorite into the abyss. In a moment of cross-eyed bewilderment he lets go the rope. We watch it slither and slide, down and away. Fortunately for our relationship I am awoken by the other teams breaking camp.
Day 2 :
T6 to T7 : MTB Downhiller
At dawn I find a stick and dig the mud from my bike whilst the more organised teams leave camp.
Finally I use the same stick to extract Dreamcoat from his tent and we set off, hurtling down the path, ducking and diving between the seconding vehicles (our fault - we left camp late) and I come around this corner and the road is blocked by a stationary combi – boulders to the left and precipice to the right. Which is also when I realise that my brakes aren’t so lekker. You know the old joke about what’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s mind when it flies into a car windscreen? Well in my case it would have been “Thule” except that I manage to grab Technicolor’s handlebar and we provide the line of seconding vehicles with some early morning light relief.
Technicolor does not rebuke me. There’s one thing about Amazing. He is one of the most calm, forgiving persons I know.
One of the features of Swazi 2008 has been the number of mind blowing MTB down hills - my saddle has been clenched so much it looks like one of those slimline eina Italian road bike types.
As the ride progress my brakes fade further until and eventually there’s nothing left. At the river I make a loop to break momentum – the locals applaud. At T7 there are too many vehicles for a repeat performance so I use my head – I fall on it.
T7 to T8 : Trek plus rope work
This starts with a lekker river crossing followed by some miserable hours working our way through never ending thickets of thorns on the hillside.
The optional rope work section is awesome – we give it a reluctant miss on the grounds of insufficient preparation. Well done to those who took it on. The Imax film crew should have been there. They will live to regret it.
In shear desperation we begin to think and navigate like pros and finish the trek in a fast time. This, and another hot meal at T7, leaves us feeling good.
Amazing stares into Second Second’s eyes while I manage to extract and refurbish my brake pads using First Second’s tweezers and nail file.
T8 to T9 : MTB
This is a long haul MTB with more great down hills (paid for by the odd uphill) and stunning views.
The brakes again fade progressively until eventually they are smooth as glass and worthless on the final downhill into T7 – which is where I have to make some quick decisions as the entrance is blocked by a bunch of stationary teams having an indaba about the best route into camp. It has just turned night so I can’t see any options through the veld other than a pile of gravel and boulders. Heroically, I choose the boulders although the group seemed the softer option. We make the 6 pm curfew with honour restored.
Njght 2 :
T9 to T10 : Night MTB
T10 to T11 : Night trek
T11 to T12 : Night MTB
Using all the self discipline I can muster I forfeit the night activities so that Technicolor can have a good rest – and I can stop oozing blood.
Resolving to fix my bike at first light I prepare to spend the night with First Second – except she won’t let me into her sleeping bag on the grounds that I smell like a wet goat. I lick my wounds and sleep fitfully.
Day 3 :
Up at 4 am to sneak from T9 to T12 by car.
T12 to T13 : MTB with wild downhill
Some quick maintenance, a late start and we’re off down the mother of all down hills. I shall long remember it.
Once again I am in awe of the tenacity and durability of the modern mountain bike. And also my recklessness.
I try various strategies to save the brake pads for really important occasions.
The first option is not to use them. This does not work. I rapidly build up supersonic speeds – and let me assure you, the steepest down hills are also the must rutted and boulder strewn. Sitting up straight to maximise wind resistance does not work either. A third strategy, which I discover has its hazards, is the old dikwiel trick of unclipping a foot and pressing it against the side of the front wheel. The catch is that it deflects the wheel and the foot tends to drag into the fork arch. Potentially exciting stuff under breakneck conditions.
T13 to Finish : MTB with optional raft and (compulsory) river crossing
And then its all over and all that remains are a few hours of slog to the finish. We just missed the cut-off to the river rafting section. But this allows us to once again catch up with the leading teams and watch them in action as they race to get the maximum optional points. We even clip a couple– a futile, bloody-minded exercise.
And lets not forget the final river crossing. The Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer executives would have fabricated an entire three hour, wide-screen movie just to include that epic scene. 
Sunday evening
I sit in my armchair and watch a section of the movie “Hope and Glory” (I think that’s the title) which depicts two kids spending some time with their grandfather in the English countryside during WWII. And the whole time I am on the edge of my seat waiting for disasters to befall them whether they are rowing (I almost wet myself during the scene where they row close to a small weir – I honestly did not think a boat would stand still so close to weir) or are simply running through the woods. There just has to be a rusted spike or pothole or bear trap or paedophile lurking somewhere. Even an innocent game of cricket is opportunity – in my warped mind – for a cracked skull. Adventure Racing certainly hones one’s awareness for disaster.
I retire to bed. First Second once again won’t let me share her sleeping bag. This time on the grounds that Grandma’s feather bed is much softer and warmer. Yippee!
Epilogue
Effusive thanks to our seconds and to Darron and all his crew for organising this awesome race and spending the many, many hours at check points and transitions. Once again the memories are indelible.
The format of staged starts and optional points allowed us to share paths with the leaders on several occasions. Watching their level of effort together with their navigational intelligence/instinct is inspiring. We, who cut out much of the course, have a good idea how tough and almost impossible doing the entire route was, salute you. I think your sponsors would do well to give you a bonus.
Lastly, this past Sunday I stood next to my wife in church and sang:
Ek sien die veld – die bosse, berge, vlaktes
Ek hoor hoe fluister grasse, stroom en wind
O Heer, U sorg vir klein, vir groot, vir alles
En sorg dag na dag vir my, u kind
Dan moet ek juig, my Redder en my God!
Hoe groot is U ; hoe groot is U!
Want deur die hele skepping klink dit saam:
Hoe heerlik, Heer, u grote Naam!
(maybe one of you has the English version)
And I understood anew why Adventure Racing excites me and what a privilege it is to be able to participate while I still can.
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