Namibia Run Part I

15.08.07

Seven Day Madness

Patrick van Sleight

More than 4000 km in seven days. Half of it on dirt. And not a BMW or KTM in sight. No, try cheap dirtbikes from China.

Part 1

Day One: Johannesburg - Upington

The morning we left was perhaps a sign of how most mornings would be on the trip. The red bike - which would be Quinton’s - was discovered with its exhaust hanging loose from the bracket. At not even six in the morning, it is a slow wait for the world to wake up and attend to our rather urgent needs. That exhaust needed fixing. Now. We had more than 4000km ahead of us.

It was better not to think about it. Every time my mind ventured to the distance and the kind of bikes we were attempting it on, my stomach turned. No, it was better to not to think at all, and just hit the road. It is much easier to do something then it is to contemplate it. Because my mind will convince me it can’t be done.

By the time we got pass Venterdorp I started to feel a bit settled. It looked like we were getting away after all. I could laugh at the previous jokes about the bikes breaking down after Krugersdorp; it looked like they will last; they were running well already.

Still, it wasn’t until we were pass Coligny that it dawned on me; we are on the road. Finally. It took a long time that morning to wait for somebody to arrive and weld the exhaust. And do a million small things before we could eventually leave.

And here we were. On the road at last. Quinton seemed surprisingly agile, comfortable and confident on his bike. We were worried that, as a novice, he would not be bikefit and be too slow; holding us back. Everything but; he was fast and safe.

It was a dreary morning. Not too cold, but the sky was overcast. Instead of comfy BMW’s, we were exposed to the wintery elements on our slim and vibey SAM Bashan’s. We were sitting in tow at a 110km/h; throttle to the stop, with a moderate headwind.

There was a toy-likeness about the bikes; light and flickable, but that makes them fun and confident inspiring. Will they last however? Can you put so much stress on a small engine for so long?

Carlie, our snapper for the trip, was following behind in a Colt Triton. He must have been chuckling endlessly at the sight in front of him; red, blue and yellow little bikes on skinny tires being swept offline every time an 18 wheelers roared past.

By the time it was late into the morning it became clear that the seat will be a cause of worry. It got harder with every passing kilometre. Mind, the vibrations turned out not to be as bad as I expected. It was more a steady, smooth zing coming through the bars and pegs, rather then the heavy drumming I expected.

A bank of dark, heavy clouds hung over the horizon in the direction that we were going and the prospect of rain was in the air. You could smell it. The idea of a downpour left me slightly uneasy; a nice big comfortable GS with heated grips and seats would have been preferable. But then, what would have been the point of the trip. People do this sort of thing on big bikes every day. We are doing this to see if you can survive the same thing on a R13 000 Chinese dirtbike.

As we approached the clouds, it got increasingly darker. Then my headlight failed; just died suddenly. Quinton loaded a box full of assorted spares, and bulbs were included in the mix. Barely a minute later we were off again, slipping underneath the swirling mass of thunder clouds.

The wind speed picked up quickly and the temperature suddenly freefell. Rain and lighting were upon us in a few blinks, and visibility almost disappeared. The world morphed into an indistinguishable grey, and I only had the faint light of Quinton’s tale light to lead me through the greyness. The water was inches high streaming of the road, and the bikes were swaying and weaving at strange angles against the strong gusts of wind. To my annoyance, I could feel my feet, hands and bottom getting wet. My enduro suit was letting water in at the ends. Fortunately, it did not feel cold, jut very uncomfortable.

It continued for what seemed like hours, and then the curtain of rain lifted gradually to reveal the town of Kuruman. The shower left everything fresh and gleaming, and we puttered down the main road, looking for lunch.

I do not know what I was thinking, playing with the front brake. Somehow, I got it into my brain that I was going too fast, and had better slow down. I grabbed the front brake absentmindedly, and woosh! The front wheel lost grip and stepped out. There I was, bewildered and angry at myself as I slid down the main road of Kuruman. Embarrassed as well; it was my fourth crash in four months. It was starting to seem habit forming. It is amazing how much the brain process in the few seconds of sliding; it actually feels like an eternity.

Cursing at myself like a drunken seaman, I rode the bike the few meters further down the main road, to the local Jonway dealer, which happened to be next to Spur. It took us an hour and a half to down some steaks, which was enough for the dealer to replace the bent handlebar, along with both the grips, cables and levers. With hardly any time lost, we were on our way again.

But the rain wasn’t finish with us. As we exited Olifantshoek in darkness, I saw something shiny falling of the back of Quinton’s bike, and break into pieces on the road. It was his number plate.

Then we rode right into the heart of a giant fireworks show. Every minute or two streaks of lightning crossed the sky and lit up the darkness to reveal a bluish landscape as far as the eye can see. It was like moonlight, only much stronger with the features of the land in much sharper detail. It was Salvador Dali meeting John Carpenter on the edge of the Karoo and the Kalahari. I know I will never see anything as spectacular ever again.

Then the lightening show ended and the downpour came again. Only this time with virtually zero visibility. Whoever invented catlights for the road, needs an award of some kind. It was the only thing that kept me on the tar. I could feel my feet sloshing in the water inside my already heavy off-road boots, and the sogginess of my gloves inside. And this time it was cold. I tried to relax my body and arms, and get some blood circulating, but within minutes I was tense again. How were the others doing? I could not see them in front, or Carlie at the back. I felt alone; with the catlights (I could see only about three ahead at a time) being the only reassurance that I wasn’t trapped in some sci-fi movie. Nevertheless, there was no time to contemplate our fate; concentrating on staying on the road took all my mental and physical resources.

After a long while, the shower stopped and the welcoming lights of Upington blinked in the distance. We stopped at the first guesthouse we saw, just as we entered the town. We had just done 793km. It was nine at night. With all the odds (and mother nature) against us, it was a rather too eventful first day. But it was behind us.

Day Two: Upington – Keetmanshoop

We woke up the next day to a morning of bright sunshine and chirping birds. We picked up two numberplates from the Oasis hotel that Quinton had gotten organized through his head-office in Johannesburg. But we were getting clever; we knew they will just vibrate and fall off again, so instead of putting them on, we keep them aside, for use at border crossings.

But before we could leave, Quinton had to have his exhaust fixed. Again, it was a matter of waiting for the sun to get higher and businesses to open. We found the local Jonway agent, which is also a Midas franchise holder. Two hours later, with his exhaust sorted, one of the mechanics slid and crashed his bike riding out of the workshop. He broke the clutch lever, headlight mountings and mudguard. So we had to wait almost another hour for it to get fixed.

We finally got onto the road with the sun sitting uncomfortably high. We took the famous testing road north, where (authorized) vehicles can legally do 250kph. Well, we were busy testing vehicles, but we had trouble breaking the national speed limit! This is road of big numbers; big speed and big distances.

The earth had a dusky, malt aroma from the rain, and huge puddles were glinting everywhere in the morning sun. The sand had become a distinctive ruby colour; we were entering the Kalahari. With no rain and wind to play havoc with the bikes, it seemed my bike was faster. Sitting at a 110km/h, I had to hold back a little in order not to pass Philippe. Whenever I opened up, I passed him. Quinton was lingering at the back. Which makes sense if you think about it; there is roughly 10kg difference between me and Philippe, and almost 20kg between Philippe and Quinton. That explains my 5km/h advantage, and why Quinton was falling so far back.

At a big saltpan beside the road, we pulled off and waited. Quinton has disappeared in our mirrors. We waited. And waited. Eventually, Carlie approached in the Triton. I expected the worst. Engine failure no doubt. No, it was just his rear-brake that locked up, informed Carlie. Everything fine. Minutes later Quinton caught us, and we proceeded.

But then Quinton discovered the science of slipstreaming; he tucked in behind Philippe and the two circled each other, going faster and faster. But I found that I still went faster even without slipstreaming, so didn’t see the need to join them.

We arrived in Ashkam 182 kilometers later. It was midday and Brenda Fassie’s “Wedding Day” on somebody’s boom box was creating a festive atmosphere at the petrol pumps. 

After that we hit the dirt roads. And my heart jumped into my throat. I was still not very comfortable in the dirt, especially in thick, soft sand. Along with Quinton, Philippe had two dirt novices on his hands. His advice was simple; throttle, throttle and more throttle. Sit back as far as you can, and look way into the distance. This turned out to be the most valuable thing I have ever learned about riding a motorcycle. 

The dirt road was not of the smooth, well-maintained variety. The ribcages ware quite big, and the only way over them was fast. Otherwise you loose your fillings. So the Frenchman’s advice came to good use. The bike’s front was light, but it tracked true and straight. In fact, its lightness and agility made it quite confidence inspiring.

We summited a hill and went down into a huge saltpan. These things are amazing to experience; imagine a sea that has dried up in the hot sun, and you pretty much have it spot on. In fact, that is more or less what they are, as the salt residue on the floor of the pan testifies.

Then it was up and out on the other side and the chase through the dust continued. Quinton impressed with his speed and comfort on the bike, and was actually staying ahead of me. By now it was midday and scorching hot.

We crested another dune (that’s actually what they are, not hills) and slammed on the brakes. In front of us, down below, an expanse of dry seabed disappeared into the haze of the horison. The road that we were on sliced across it like a sweep with a sword, straight and right in the middle, eventually making a gentle turn to the right, before disappearing into the nothingness.

Still, that does not prepare you for the experience when you sooner or later make your way down there. Then it actually does look like a (wet) sea this time, because of the mirage the heatwave creates. The sense of space is overwhelming. And the silence deafening. We seemed small and insignificant in this universe of open land. Right in the middle of the pan you can’t see where you are coming from and where you are going. All we had was this lonely road leading us to the border.

The corrugated surface of the road seemed to worsen. I kept expecting the bike to explode into pieces, but all the nuts and bolts held in place. Loctite actually works. And if you go slower, it becomes worse, so it was flat-out, throttle-to-the-stop stuff again. If you told me six months ago I would do this on a cheap dirtbike and not crash, I would have laughed in your face.

The speed over the rutted road was amazing; between ninety and a hundred, and I kept in fifth gear for its stronger pull against the wind. Slot into sixth and the bike actually slows down; it seem more like an overdrive, cruising gear. Speeding over the bumps, it felt as if the bike was misfiring from the continued shuddering through the suspension and frame.

The sun was lying low on the horizon, and blinding us, as we were heading west. I couldn’t see much of the road, and was getting caked in the dust from Quinton and Philippe’s bikes.

Rietfontein came out of nowhere, and is a classic frontier town; straight out of a Louis L’Amour western. The streets are empty with only dry tumbleweeds rolling in the hot breeze and whirl-winds dancing though desolate buildings. But our bikes enticed an assortment of characters out into the heat. They do see bikes coming through here, the petrol attendant informed us. Big, fancy BMW’s usually. Of course, what else.

On the other side of the border, the dirt road is immediately better. Maybe Namibia has a bigger budget for road works, or maybe because they don’t have many tar roads (most dirt roads are actually the main connections between many towns) they have no choice but to keep the dirt roads smooth. Whatever the case, I was thankful; it meant my heart could beat slower for a while.

Another thunderstorm was on the brew in the distance ahead; and Carlie stopped us for a photo shoot. After my crash in Kuruman, it seem my yellow bike (I now started calling it Yellow Fever) seemed to develop a liking for the dirt; because it went down this time without any assistance from me. It seemed I was making progress with my crashing; they were getting slower all the time. Parked on its side-stand, it just toppled over. The new hand-guard that was replaced in Kuruman, was the only fatality.

For a while it seemed we would miss the thunderstorm, but then the road made a swerve right into it underneath the mass of clouds. A few big drops started to fall, and I resigned myself to getting soaked again. But then it stopped suddenly.

We all ran out of fuel some time before Keetmanshoop, and the jerry cans on the Triton fulfill their role. The range on my bike – Yellow Fever – was 205km. I put it on reserve at 190km. Quinton kept on fiddling with the nut in the exhaust header of his bike at every opportunity we stopped; it was loose and he was worried.

We reached Keetmanshoop without further incident. We booked in at the Bird’s Mansions, and then it dawned on me that we had no breakfast or lunch for the day. It was non-stop, flat-out riding for 487km.

We discovered Philippe finally lost something (nothing seemed to go wrong with his bike); a number plate. He rides it with love he says. That is why nothing happens with it. I decided to name it Blue Passion then. He is French after all. It turned out the bolt on his exhaust header was coming loose as well. Rejoice!

Day 3: Keetmanshoop – Sossusvlei

To safe time in the morning, we prepared the bikes the previous evening; tightening and lubing the chains; topping up oil and tightening bolts. That saved us a good half an hour in the morning, and for the first time on the trip, we were on the road before sunrise.

We headed west, into the outback of Namibia. The dirt road was smooth with a compacted, hardened surface; as good as any tar road. We stopped for pictures, and a bakkie (obviously a local) flew pass at an incredible speed. Are there speedcops on Namibia’s dirt roads?

The landscape became Karoo-like; dry and rocky and dark in colour. As we down a long descent – with me in front this time – I had an unobstructed view into the distance. I noticed two animals way in front running towards the road from the left-hand side. They were small and camel-coloured. I thought they looked like hyenas or wild dogs, but there was something far too graceful in their gallop. They crossed the road still way ahead of me, but as they moved away to the right, I passed them close enough to realise they were Springbok!

No fences. No reserves. Just wide open space. And you have Springbok galloping freely. Then it dawned on me. This is Namibia man, welcome!

We crossed a stream in the middle of nowhere – must be from the recent rain – but it was quite unexpected in this otherwise dry landscape.

With the sun still low behind our backs in the east, we entered a small settlement called Berseba. It reminded me very much of Riemvasmaak. Dry and hard, and so small you can capture the whole place with one glance down the main road. We filled up and I bewondered myself in the click-click language of the locals at the pumps. Nama; a tongue once thought to be extinct in South Africa. It is so old, the clicks in the Xhosa language is said to be derived from Nama when they met each other at the border of Eastern Cape and Natal. It brings back notions of a simple life in days gone by when the land belonged to no one and anyone could kill a springbok freely and feast on it for a week.

How free do we think we are in our fenced parks in Rivonia? Right then, with two wheels carrying each of us right of the map; I knew we were as free as modern man was ever going to get. The experience has no price. A R13000 rand Chinese scrambler could never be too cheap, and a R100 000 Austrian enduro bike could never be too expensive.

On the other side of Berseba lies a bewildering labyrinth of dusty roads, and it took a while to find the one that will take us to Sossusvlei. At a T-junction we stopped a farmer to ask for directions. Both roads will take us there, he said, but the one to the right is more difficult. Too difficult for bikes he guessed. Our French commander-in-chief decided we should turn right. So that’s what we did.

Soon the road became a two-track path, littered with boulders. Quinton took the lead, followed by Carlie in the Triton, and disappeared in front. Suddenly my bike sounded very loud; as my exhaust blew off. The Frenchman at the back picked it up, and huddled along with it on his bike while I waited. This delay caused Carlie to make a u-turn, to come and see what happened. But he also brought disturbing news; way ahead Quinton had a big “moment”.

We caught up with him sitting beside his bike, holding his leg in pain. He hit one big boulder, lost control, and careered through two thick torn bushes. Part of the bush was still stuck in the font mudguard. After a while he was standing and smiling – limping, but smiling. Tough cookie.

We went through farmgate after farmgate, and it we were clearly on a road almost no one uses. Eventually we got to another T-junction, and onto a properly maintained road, that was once again fast and open. My open-pipe sounded naughty and reckless, and stung my eardrums. But it was enjoyable. I always had a thing for loud pipes.

On the way to Maltahohe it was with shock that we suddenly encountered a tar road. Was it good or bad news? I decided to be disappointed. I wasn’t ready for civilization. But the road led us there within minutes. It was a good time to fill the tanks. Strangely, this time I got 217km without even reserve.

We found a workshop in Maltahohe that could weld my exhaust back. But we arrived during lunch, and like any self-respecting rural town, business close for an hour over lunch. So we spent the hour lunching in the local hotel, with the charming and beautiful Rone behind the counter keeping us entertained. Dirk, the mechanic at the workshop was clever to use a piece of excess steel lying around in the workshop to weld the exhaust, which proved to be wise, as it would not break again on the rest of the trip.

Quinton got them to fix his exhaust header as well. Considering his bike’s appetite for thorn bushes, it was baptized Red Dragon. Then we notice how excessively worn the rear tires on me and Quinton’s bikes were. We would need replacements soon. Philippe’s rear tyre however, hardly had any wear. Because I ride with love, he grinned. Then we notice his license disk has fallen off, and were delighted. Something else has finally happened with Blue Passion.

Stomachs filled to the brim, we hit the dirt road again. In Maltahohe we were warned about a dangerous, slippery pass. It was Zarishoogte Pass, and we approached it with caution. It turned out to be a small, if steep mountain pass.

Some time after that; the back of my bike suddenly started floating. Damn. A flat. We had no tools to get the tire of the rim, and spotted a farm nearby. It is called Hammerstein, and two of the Nama-speaking farm-workers, Gert Jantjies and Frans Roman, sorted us out. They look like they’ve ripped tyres of rims a few times before.

The last stretch to Sossusvlei was another heart-in-mouth experience. The road worsened to a combination of ruts and loose sand, and the bikes were dancing all over the road. By now I swore by a full throttle, and developed some faith in my skill and the ability of the bike. It was an extremely uncomfortable occurrence whenever the bike snaked through a patch of sand, and it helped to look far ahead, so I could not really see the sand. By the time I experience it, it was too late to develop second-thoughts about entering it.

Then I hit a big patch of rough sand. The lowering sun was blinding me, and the road was curving gently. The bike started snaking again, but this time did not straighten out – it continued. I sat back to get the front lightened, and stopped all brain functions. It was survival again. Keeping the throttle pinned, I could feel the forces from the rearwheel pulling the bike in line. Still the front danced and waltzed, and the snaking would not end. Then the ability to reason returned and I thought it might be a good idea to actually crash. How else was I going to stop this madness? But then I thought further and reasoned that I would have to pick the bike up and continue through this very stretch of sand anyway. So crashing would bring no benefit. If we had a trailer to put the bike on, well then maybe…

Eventually the sand ended, and relief set in. Carlie, who was behind me, would later remark that he thought I was actually crashing, and couldn’t believe that I made it through. I couldn’t either.

I rolled into Sossusvlei absolutely knackered, but relieved. Everybody had a few moments on that road, it turned out. I could hardly appreciate the luxury of the lodge I found myself in. My body was screaming for a soft, clean bed.

Day 4: Sossusvlei

The lodge is about 30km from the vlei, and we left early to get there, wanting to beat the tourists. After an open-air breakfast in the rising sun, we enter the gate into the Namib-Naukluft Park. I last saw the red Namib dunes in Walvisbaai almost twenty years ago, and was filled with apprehension at the thought of seeing these huge mountains of sand again.

As we rode into the park, they seemed like a distant range of mountains, but grew and presence by the minute as we approached them.

Then Quinton suddenly fell back. His bike just died; electrics dead. Alternator, rectifier, battery, a fuse? Diagnosis could take hours, and we were not mechanics. We decided to leave his bike next to road, and he jumped into the triton with Carlie. The destination was Sossusvlei; getting our hands full of grease and grime again would have to wait till afterwards.

We got to the parking spot which was already full with tour busses, overlanders and game viewers. From there only four-wheel drive vehicle could proceed. It sounded tough, and that little hot, heavy rock suddenly appeared in my crop again. This was not the loose gravel of yesterday, but soft powdery sand. And even deeper. There was five kilometers of the stuff before we would see the vlei.

We deflated the tyres and made a run for it. Philippe attacked it head-on, and I had no choice but to follow. That discomforting, snaking sensation was back, and I wondered if I was ever going to get used to it. Yet, there is also a huge dose of exhilaration that comes with it.

My first ever story for TOPBIKE involved riding a BMW F650GS through thick, westcoast dune sand, and I promptly crashed it, not knowing how to get through sand. It is rare moments like these I realise my growth.

Once I gained momentum, all I had to do was maintain it. The sand was so thick I would struggle to walk through it, and we were overtaking four-wheel drives left right and centre. As soon as we hit a hard section where some mud dried, I heard a dull bang and felt that familiar feeling from the back. A puncture. Carlie reckoned I deflated my tyre way too much, that’s why it punctured. We were two kilometers from the vlei.

We left Yellow Fever on the dry mud bank, and I joined Carlie and Quinton in the Triton. Every picture of Sossus that I have seen had water in it, but this time of the year it is bone dry. What you also never see in the postcards, is the droves of tourists. There were hundreds of them, and they can very easily make the desert feel small.

So ultimately Blue Passion was the only bike to actually make it Sossusvlei, with the other two bikes stricken beside the road. That is the reward for looking after your bike.

The view from the dune gives a sense of the immense scale of the desert. This is a desert in the classic sense; just sand – and nothing else – as far as the eye can see in all directions.

Blue Passion’s chain slipped off, as Philippe was revving very hard through the thick sand, but that was hardly a setback. The real setback was to come later.

On the way back we picked up Yellow Fever, and passed a Nissan 4x4 stuck up to its axles in the sand. When we reached Quinton’s bike, we simply swopped his rear tyre with mine, and I could be on my way. We put his bike on the back of the Triton.

As we parked at a dead, ancient tree, we heard a pop from Philippe’s bike, and with loud sis, saw his rear end sagging. Another puncture. There wasn’t space for another bike on the bakkie, so we had to leave Blue Passion behind and come back after dropping Quinton’s bike.

In my imagination I could see an observant and bemused German tourist noticing a blue bike abandoned next to the road in the morning, then a yellow one a while later, and on his way back by midday, a blue one.

There was a very rudimentary workshop that could take care of the punctures. The valves actually broke off, so the spare tubes had to be commissioned into service. There was no patching up the old ones. But Quinton’s electric problem would have to wait till we get to a proper workshop in Swakopmund.

However, the punctures meant we weren’t able to leave for Swakopmund; it was already too late in the day. We were about to loose a day on the schedule. But no one was complaining. Being stuck in the desert get a new meaning with such pampering surroundings. If there was one place you would not mind getting stuck; this was it.

Total mileage for the day? 128 km.

Observations halfway through the trip

Philippe:

About the bike: Every day the bike runs better; it really goes well. My biggest trouble yet was the puncture today.
About the trip: Sossusvlei is one of the top three places in the world for me, and I have traveled extensively. Being here on any bike is already an achievement, let alone these ones.
Prediction for second half: Don’t really want to say – I don’t feel too optimistic.

Quinton:

About the bike: I am disappointed. I didn't expect my bike to end up on the back of the bakkie. Not being able to ride to Swakopmund is a big let down.
About the trip: Bloody awesome! I have seen some exotic places in the world as well, and this stands out. I will be back soon.
Prediction for second half: It is going to be fun!

 Patrick:

About the bike: Very impressed by how sweet the engine runs. And apart from the exhaust, little else has actually vibrated loose. I am impressed.
About the trip: The hard seat that bothered me so much on the first day hardly matters now, because the riding is so intense. There hasn’t been a lazy cruise yet. Every day is challenging and I have to keep my wits about me.
Prediction for second half: If the past few days are anything to go by, we will definitely make it. I feel positive about it.

End of Part 1

Next month; Part 2: Will the bikes bring them back to Joburg? Read part two here.