Flat Dog Does the Dusi

Race : Dusi Canoe Marathon 2009
Distance : 120 km


Date : 15-17 January 2009


Author : Abel van der Merwe










FLAT DOG DOES THE DUSI

Perhaps the best known festival for idiocy is the Pamplona “Running of the Bulls” of San Fermin, Spain. Less well known, and I can’t understand why, is the alternative “Running of the Nudes” festival organized by Spain’s bunny huggers in protest against bull fighting cruelty.

The English, proud of their eccentricity offer, amongst others, the “Cotswald Shin Kicking Championships” and “Cheese Rolling at Cooper’s Hill, Gloustershire”.
Just in case you think the latter is plain silly – the statistics indicate a 30% injury rate for the demented okes who throw themselves after a large cheese that bounces down a 300 yard hill with a one in two gradient.

Wales has come up with the “Bog Snorkeling Championships” whilst the Ozzies organize the “Charleville Camel, Donkey and Yabbie Race”, the “Roach Racing Championships”, the “Pig Diving Championships” and the “Darwin Beer Can Regatta”

The Dutch have the five day “High Times Cannabis Cup” and the “Amsterdam Stilletto Run” on offer while Finland is more sedate with their “Mobile Phone Throwing World Championships” and “Wife Carrying Championships”

The Turks have “Camel Wrestling Champs” and the Mexicans “Mexican Wrestling”. More obscure is the “India Pakistan Border Closing Ceremony” (true’s bob).

The USA has hundreds of bizarre, but none of them particularly life and limb threatening on account of the lawyers, events such as the :
- Montana Turkey Testical Festival
- Pandemonious Potted Pork Festival
- Fancy Rat and Mouse Annual Show
- Bean Fest and Great Championship Outhouse Race
- Gopher Count
- Great Texas Mosquito Festival (where one of the items is crowning of the man and woman whose legs most resemble those of a mosquito)
- International Rotten Sneaker Contest
- Roadkill Cook-off

The Japanese on the other hand are more imaginative. Festivals of note include
- Hadaka Matsuri, a winter festival where for some vague reason, groups of okes wander around in thongs
- Hounen Matsuri , also known as the Beer, Women and Huge Male Genitalia (a wooden effigy) festival
- Kanamara Matsuri or festival of the Steel Phallus.

I detect an obsession here so let’s rather discuss another Japanese festival, whose name I can’t recall. This is the one where teams of village idiots, menopausal men and other heros aim enormous pine logs down the steepest embankment they can find and, as it gathers momentum, they jump astride - oops another Phalic Phestival. Ag shame. But what makes this one special is the gross stupidity. Inevitably, the log goes broadside and starts to roll, leaving gingerbread men in its wake. What good does it do young Kawaksi to be a seven foot tall, five foot wide hero if the chicks discover him to be rather shallow?

So, what idiotic events have South Africans thought out for themselves?

The best on offer, aside from daily sharing of public roads with taxis and several “koedoe drol spoeg” competitions, is the Festival of the Boat Bearers.

This is the one where one and half thousand zealots stumble to and fro across the KZN Valley of a 1000 Hills with kayaks on their backs, occasionally heading for the river beds for a dip and the hope of making the kayak lighter by breaking pieces off in death defying rapids.

So, it should come as no surprise that Flat Dog and I are drawn like moths to a flame. For the curious, Flat Dog is my K1 – Flat because he’s nice, flat and stable and Dog because he’s a dog to paddle. (Note : Flat dog is also a old Rhodesian term of effection for a crocodile)

And we had a great time.

The rapids were exhilarating and closely spaced – I am inclined to think that in some spots there were rapids on top of rapids. And the boulders! They were all over - even under the water. Every so often I would go over one and feel a cricket ball sized bulge burrowing the length of the Flat Dog from front to rear. I now understand what the old hands mean when they say a river is bony.

As for the portages – they were massive, mean, multitudinous (some 20 km in total – mostly compulsory), and entirely undiplomatic. Especially in the midday sun and 99% humidity.

In fact, I have never before so often had reason to ask myself “what the heck I am I doing here?” A question which, I fortunately believe, is an essential ingredient of any adventure. It’s the first corollary to my other rule – “if you’re not out of your depth it’s not an adventure”.

What I never anticipated, despite many years of Dusi exposure from newspaper reports, magazines article and TV coverage was the sheer magnitude of the Dusi.

Aside from already mentioned portages and another 20 km (all compulsory) of flat water the remainder of the 120 km Dusi comprises a dozen or so named rapids plus a never ending succession of unnamed rapids, boulders, ledges, drops, dog legs, channels, pools with eddies etc all requiring focus and enthusiasm. All one needs for fun and games.

But to me was real surprise of the Dusi was the magnificence of the race route.

Truly amazing is that, aside from the first and last 10 km or so, I saw very little human settlement and there was an intense awareness of being in the wilderness. Yet, driving over the hills or voyeurising on Google earth reveals one of the most densely populated non-urban regions of South Africa.


Day 1 : Maritz burrah to Dusi Bridge (+- 37 km)

It’s a perfect, coolish, overcast day and we start early – at 7h10 in batch “H”. This seeding comes as rather a shock as it’s ahead of “I” batch which is reserved for the Dusi Rats who have done 20 Dusi’s.

Suspicious, I query this twice and find that it indeed so. The Dusi Organising Committee have clearly done some research and concluded that potential is more significant than past performance.

The big advantage is that we – Flat Dog and I that is - can expect experienced paddlers to come by all day and show the way. Which they do, muttering about rookies that dither on the rapids.

When the start canon booms I have to hold Flat Dog on a short leash at Ernie Pierce weir and let the others go first in case we fall over and block the exit. But it is shot perfectly as is Witness weir soon thereafter. Ten meters below Witness I have a strip of flesh ripped from my hand by submerged barbed wire or something. Don’t ask what my hand was doing in the water.






The point of no return

At Musson we have to avert a boat blockage and end up stranded on the rocks whilst NI Rapid, supposedly a non-event, scares me into high alert. Flat Dog flies over Low Level bridge without a winge and my confidence grows.

The first thing to notice as we leave town is how all the riverine trees are draped with once multi-colour but now severely faded and tatty bits of cloth and plastic – somewhat like the Sherpa shrines in the Himalayas. The deeper the river valley becomes the higher up in the trees are the rags - two even three meters – until it looks like some overcrowded middle Eastern bazaar and I half expect a man with a long rod with a hook on the end to offer to take one down for me to view.

A strong smell of hydrogen sulphide indicates that we are approaching the portals of Hades. But, its only the sewerage works and we wind into the Valley of a 1000 Hills past Taxi rapid where we manage to find the gap in the rocks on the far left, only to lose steering control in the ensuing rush of water. We hit a large rock on the side of the river nose on with a resounding thud. The other paddlers cheer and, miraculously, Flat Dog does not split open like a tree pod.

The river banks become rubbish free as we approach Campbell’s farm portage. This signals one hour of carrying #$&I%&* Flat Dog on one shoulder, then the other shoulder and then back again. For a short while I get a chance to chat to my wife as she trots alongside.

Note the boatless okes at the back
But it’s all worth it. When we put in again the river has changed. The river bed is now wide, flanked by high hills and plentiful vegetation that sometimes gives way to rocky cliffs. Each vista is more awesome that the last.

The river itself becomes ever more exuberant, twisting and turning through seemingly endless valleys as it rushes on its way to the Indian ocean. Sometimes it gurgles as it swirls and rushes around and between boulders, other times it roars as it cascades over rock ledge after rock ledge or, every so often breaking into a minor rapid.

I enjoy the views while keeping a lookout for the next turn of the river valley. If it drops away – which is constantly the case on the Dusi - it means rapidly reducing altitude and therefore, in all probability, fast and furious water.

There are literally dozens if not hundreds of little rapids, drops, boulders and other features that have to be read and responded to. I revel in the thought that only a few months ago most would have unseated me. Amongst all this we shoot Tegwaan and Son-of-a-gun rapids where some more adrenalin is released.

Then comes Guinea Fowl portage. So-named, I assume, because of the spots before the eyes as it takes one up and then down and up again through Devils’ Cauldron. The relationship between Flat Dog and myself becomes strained. As I drag him downhill on his leash he looses control and rushes at my ankles like an angry mamba and I have to take evasive action to the amusement some supporters.

Back on the river there is once again boundless excitement. Aside from many unnamed rapids we apparently also shot Broken Bridge and Decision rapid – which could just have well have been unnamed as I certainly didn’t recognize them in passing. Nor can I recall them now.

Flat Dog dives for kreef while Oupa uses a bad word

Eventually arriving at the so-called Maze rapids we battle, one skirmish at a time, through a myriad of channels, drops, and rapids. This is hardly completed when Mission Bridge looms around the corner. This heralds Mission Rapid – one of the biggies of legend.

For once my memory does not fail me and I remember the instructions “hug the left bank as the river turns to the left to avoid the succession of drops, then either stay left for the main, spectator rapid or head river right for the chicken run”.

But, the left half of the river is overrun with dozens of kids swimming. Man, don’t the adults watch TV in these parts? So its river centre down the drops. Half way through Flat Dog spins around and we finish the rest in reverse to the amusement of the crowds. We eventually run aground and I have to disembark and reset.

We take the short Finger Neck Portage but decline the longer Cabbage tree portage. By now the river has become seriously beautiful.

Note how the river drops away to the right

But the going is not easy and the adrenalin pumps continuously. Time and again we slam into rocks – either full head on or with hard, gut wrenching side blows. We become wedged between rocks or are lifted and thrown aside by unseen underwater behemoths.

Some pieces of free advice to novices:

1) If you see a smooth bulge in the river do not assume that there is a blemish in the space-time continuum where gravity is not sucking properly. It is more likely to be a submerged hippo sized boulder.

2) When the river flows strongly – usually through a constricted channel of extended length – it sets up a series of standing waves. These are a line of peaks and troughs about a half a canoe length apart and sometimes more than a meter deep. If your balance is OK they are great fun (although usually not optional as it is more difficult to go around then) and an opportunity to get a good douche. For some reason, and this is the word of advice, the last wave in the train is more often than not a water covered rock.

Amazingly Flat Dog does not break or even leak – for the moment.

But this is unfortunately not so for everyone. All along the river there are abandoned kayaks or people doing desperate duct tape repairs. At every refreshment station seconds scurry and the smell of glass fibre resin dominates while at the overnight stop just about every known canoe supplier has a workshop with screaming angle grinders and rows of boats – at least a hundred is my guess - in the repair queue.

That night my body is too sore for deep sleep, but my mind is happy as I am unaware of what tomorrow holds in store.

Day 2 Dusi Bridge to Inanda Dam (+- 48 km)

It is hot and humid. We start at 9h25 in batch “O” – the last one. The Dusi Committee have clearly, in their wisdom and experience, decided that there is a need for some maturity and responsibility at the back.

On the one hand this is bad news – Ant Stott has already finished before we even start and its going to be a long, hot day with many compulsory portages. On the other hand, I am now amongst my peers and, most importantly, it is no longer a race but an expedition.

Boy, did we have fun. All day we kept each other’s spirits up by getting stuck on rock ledges or demonstrating new tricks. The banks were littered with people bailing out boats as we take turns to swim.

Every so often, someone would play silly buggers and go down a rapid in reverse. This is not so difficult as it sounds. When approaching a rapid just paddle like crazy and at the last moment ram the canoe’s nose into the large boulder either side of the top of the rapid. Then simply wait for the current to take the rest of the canoe around.

Its even better when two canoes do this as they become log jammed and block the channel. The situation quickly escalates as more and more canoes ram them midships. Yet, because we are so slow, no boats appear to be broken.

Another interesting thing about paddling behind a novice (you know he is one because his whole demeanor reeks of fear and palookaness) is that although you know – you being a palooka yourself- that when he chooses a channel or an approach the odds are greater than 80% it’s the wrong one, you will follow his lead.

But beneath all this camaraderie there is fierce competition. Let no man tell you otherwise, there is as much competition at the back of the field between first last and second last as there is at the front for first and second.

In which regard I have a confession to make – and I think I am not alone in this. I take perverse pleasure in seeing other paddlers desperately clutching onto boat and paddle as they bob down a rapid or wrestle with water filled kayaks on the river bank. The same sort of pleasure that I got in kindergarten when somebody else dropped their egg in the egg and spoon race.

Why? Because it means that the odds are in my favour for the moment at least.
In fact, I have a suspicion that the inmates of the old age home have the same suppressed glee when Oom Piet snuffs it or Auntie Maude drops off her perch. But, as with the rapids, the statistical advantage is only temporary as the same end waits for us all. It’s all just a matter of time and fortune.

Anyway, we are soon at the two Saddles portages, which are taken because they are short and effective, but after Umgeni Confluence, I, much to my disgust, follow the mob in portaging around Washing Machine, Rock Slide and Willem’s Shute. As we slog along I resolve never again to take a voluntary portage. I even cross the river and continue the portage on the other side at Willem’s Shute.

By the time we get to the Ngumeni Hill portage (compulsory) my mood is restored as there is plenty of small stuff plus the tricky bit at Marian Folley along the way. At the put in I discover a bullfrog (a two pounder) lurking inside Flat Dog that had clearly hitched a ride all the way from the overnight stop. He’s lucky to be alive.

A few hundred meters after Ngumeni are the big three - Gum Tree, Tombi and Hippo Rocks - and I decide against all prior advice, including my own, that we are not portaging them.

But I cannot for the life of me remember my crib notes. All I can remember is Phil Botha of Centurion Canoe Club saying “ swim at Tombi and its game over”. I don’t even have a basis for recognizing the rapids or even the order in which they come.

Flat Dog regrets leaving his snorkeling equipment at home

In fact I can’t even remember which rapids we did or which ones did us. All I have is this vague memory, which I try to suppress, of getting stuck on river right and a marshal wearing a SA Navy wetsuit guiding Flat Dog’s nose down a long (dry) rock slide. We get stuck again and then we eventually re-enter the torrent and almost immediately Flat Dog dumps me and we careen uncontrolled and panicking over boulders and rocks until he broadsides and becomes wedged lengthwise between two boulders. In less than a second there’s a mini dam going and I can see Flat Dog flexing. But he stoically holds on whilst I battled for at least fifteen minutes with bruised but not quite broken limbs to get him dislodged.

You cannot imagine the force of the river. At one stage I become trapped upstream of the boat while trying to cross from one end to the other. I now appreciate the constant warnings about foot entrapment. I come close to giving up, and would have, had I been sure that I could slip through underneath without getting stuck.

Amazingly there is no damage to Flat Dog. I, on the other hand limp for a week.

From Hippo onwards I virtually have the river to myself and its fantastic.

After Big Bend Rapid where the valley broadens on its approach to Inanda dam. The banks are broad, swathed with reeds and enormous patches of elephant ears. It looks tropical and lush and in fact when the two helicopters fly backwards an forwards along the river every few minutes it is not difficult to imagine a Vietnam war movie setting. After a while it gets so convincing (my day dreaming that is) that I put on my best capitalist smile each time they buzz overhead just to show them I’m not some gook that needs a douse of napalm.

Eventually sand banks announce the start of the dam and its not too long before bridge with the longed for refreshment station looms. But as at the previous station, there is no water left and they are anyway starting to pack up. A long hard 10 km slog on the dam to the overnight stop follows.

I drag Flat Dog out the water into the pound. Before heading for a nights rest I inspect his hull. It looks as hideous as hippo hide but still intact. His nose has lost its sleek lines. It has a bulbous look, like wet chipboard and it probably leaks. I am too tired to care since I too am feeling haggard. How much I only realize when I look in the rear view mirror and recognize my father in his final years.

Day 3 : Inanda to Durbs (+- 35km)

On paper this promises to be a rather mundane day. A quick 4 km flatwater paddle followed by some river work, the Burma road portage and then some 12km of flat river to the coast.

How wrong can one be? It turns out to be a spectacular day both in terms of scenery and paddling.

The dam section starts badly. Flat Dog immediately takes on water and I begin to worry as we get further and further from the shore. I paddle slower until I am officially first last. Then a new panic takes over – I remember rule one when in hyena or croc invested wilderness DO NOT BE AT THE BACK OF COLUMN! The 15cc Evinrude fires at the second tug of the rope and we weave our way through the pack.

At the Tops Needle put-in, just after the dam wall, there is mayhem. The river is broad, and stony. It declines steeply for a hundred meters or so, which, together with the water being released from Inanda by the authorities for our entertainment and thrills results in fast albeit shallow water.

Just about every palooka in Batch “O” has put in too early despite warnings. There are jokers to the left and jokers to right baling out canoes. Just when I’m gleefully thinking this is my chance to get ahead I too put in and take a swim. A painful one.

The dam water is clear. For the first time I can see below the surface. The rocks are jagged, plentiful and haphazardly dispersed. This third dimension introduces a new avenue of paranoia. Fear starts to dominate my decisions.

Slowly regaining confidence we head for Umzinyati rapid fully intending to dazzle Ouma, who I know is there, with a skilled display of river craft.

At Umzinyati there is a carnival atmosphere with throngs of spectators, gazebos, skottel braais, cool boxes and all. At the crest of the rapid I realize, at the last moment, that this is a big one – hence all the spectators.

Peripheral vision reveals that Batch “O” are once again doing their thing. There is chaos in abundance. Canoes are stranded on both banks. These are the lucky ones. Further downstream onlookers are desperately catching and dragging canoes and paddlers out the raging river. Then my eyeballs switch to tunnel vision mode and I scan for a line to follow. (I have a suspicion that there is a cord linking the sphincter muscles to the eyeball so that when the former pulls tight the latter’s shutters are closed)

Almost immediately my paddle shaft breaks and only ribbons of carbon fiber hold the two halves together. Flat Dog has eyes on the back of his head and decides he’d rather go it alone and bucks me off. We hurtle downstream, bouncing off the rocks. I nevertheless try to protect Flag dog from the worst by putting my body in the firing line. I feel bruises being hammered into my back and thighs while I keep reminding myself not to try standing up (foot entrapment !). But the warning is not necessary. The current is much too strong. In fact way below the rapid it is still too strong and even after abandoning the now useless paddle I can’t quite swim Flat Dog to the side and we too have to be dragged out by a spectator. Shaken and sore I wait for my wife to bring another spare paddle.

I use the time to squirt Bostik into Flat Dog’s nose to stem the leak. In a moment of brilliance I decide to force the glue into the cracks by placing my mouth around his snout and blowing. How was I to know this left a ring of glue in my beard and moustache which congealed to look like bridle of dried snot? Who takes a mirror on a kayak trip? Small wonder the chicks at the refreshment tables retreated in horror whenever we arrived. Flat Dog at least is more friendly after this public display of affection.

Oupa chases Flat Dog with a broken paddle - please do not report to SPCA

We push on to the Burma road take out and I decide not to follow the crowd and head down river to Little John rapid. My arrogance is rewarded by my third very painful and frightening swim of the Dusi. I desperately cling to Flat Dog, the paddle and one shoe – all three being crucial to future survival - as the river rolls and batters us. Yet again rocks pound my hips, kidneys and back. Eventually Flat Dog gets trapped in the rocks blocking the strong flowing water. Once more he miraculously survives while I first ferry the paddle and shoe to shore.

That Flat Dog does not snap is quite something because by now his hull has been scraped so much it is soft and pliable as a turtle egg.

Grave Yard and Molweni rapids are subsequently shot with extreme caution. Island One is portaged as is Five Fingers – the former on advice which I by now am taking more seriously and the latter because a helicopter is appearing to casevac someone when I arrive there.

All that remains is Mango rapid. It not only bigger - in terms of water bulk not rocks - than expected but also catches us by surprise. As we round the corner of the reed bank it is upon us – too late to head right as the marshal frantically indicates.

Flat Dog and I head for the bridge pillar, uncontrolled, and at full tilt. At the last moment the big wave at its base lifts Flat Dog’s nose out of the way and we flip up and around, and head into a maelstrom of standing waves and at mind boggling speed. Flat Dog is by now completely traumatized. Frozen with fear he won’t respond to his captain. So we take our final swim.

From here on there remains an hour’s hard flat water slog to the sea and the finish.

The last action before heading for home is a stop at Govender’s House of Curry for a large mutton bunny chow that burns all the Dusi E.Coli out my gut.


Statistics

Big swims : Four – three painful and somewhat frightening
Inelegant dismounts and cool downs : A dozen or so
Numbers of times I deserved to swim but somehow managed to survive : plenty, plenty.

Epilogue

As I write, Flat Dog, is lying on the lawn. His seams are splitting and his hull shows signs of de-lamination. He wags his tail weakly when I speak and makes small whining sounds because he knows his Dusi days are over.

As for the question : why do I do these things? The answer for today is that Nic, a friend of some 33 years, has the motto “you are never too old to have a good childhood”. It fits me well - except that he uses it to buy another expensive watch for his collection.

Finally, I did it in memory of my deceased parents, my mother eventually being released from almost two years of lying in bed with a broken hip and a failed transplant, earlier this month. It is thus with sensitivity and compassion that I joke about the folks in the old age home. The adventure of their lives was to have, twice, established tobacco farms with bounteous gardens and orchards out of the Rhodesian wilderness. Farms that are today part of the Zimbabwean wasteland. Incapable of supporting neither human, beast nor fowl. It is the knowledge that I must eventually follow their footsteps into the biggest adventure transition of them all, that I enjoy what I can while I can.