Part 6
There is no rush to leave Middelpos – we only have a short ride of a few hours to the bash at Stonehenge from here.
I try and sleep late but Ouma is frisky and wants to spoon. Travolta has unpacked his laptop and plakked it back together with duct tape. He is in Vleisbroek and Twatter heaven, tapping away at the keyboard like Liberace tickling the ivory keys. He makes contact with the Ottoman High Command and formally requests them to stand down – he is now OK. Kneelo dons his bi-focals and sms’s Gaddafi to tell him the deal is on and to confirm what carat of gold leaf is required on Muammar’s toilet seats – little does the Colonel know that Kneelo has some surplus golden loos left over from Saddam’s spot in Baghdad stored in the bunker under his Houtbaai paleis – he is getting schnaaied here “Kneelo style”
Wile waiting for brekkie we kill time and fiddle with the bikes on the stoep. I pick dead kamikaze locusts from everywhere and have another little dry kots in the back of my throat.
I take off the seat to check a few things and see my ally rear subframe is cracked right through – that’s what 10kg of fuel will do bouncing up and down on corrugated roads – its OK I know an oke who knows an oke who used to weld submarines together - under water nogal - this will be a piece of piss for him to fix.
I help Travolta with his Dkr – it is now abbreviated because it is half the bike it used to be. We do a MP Conversion (Mitchells Plein) and use a few hundred cable ties and 4 rolls of brown tape to secure everything.
Ouma makes us a hearty breakfast of maltabella, toast with appelkoos konfyt, free-range eggs and some boerie. We wash this down with 5l of Ricoffy and all beetle off to send our regards to Mugabe again.
We pack up, settle up and fill up – ready to hit the road at a very civilised 10 am.
I am going to take the boys on a small detour into Matjieskloof to look for boesman paintings I have heard about. We find the kloof and look around but see nothing - I skeem the boesman have packed up the gallery and moved somewhere like St. George’s Mall where there is more foot traffic.
Up ahead we see some abandoned corbelled houses up the road and use them as an excuse to stop for a pee.
Travolta misses his camel in Istanbul and we quickly make a plan to put a smile on his dial again.
We get back on the R354 and are now making a beeline for the Bash. The Karoo shows us some of its awesome roads, from fast but loose marbled stuff to slow and technical paths too.
Gannaga Pass lies ahead. We stop at the top and marvel at what lies beneath. It really is breathtaking.
I lead the boys down and stop for another pic.
The Pass is very steep and has some super tight hairpin turns. I kak Travolta out for riding so slow – he retorts with something about no back brake and deep tissue bruising – “whatever!” – I tell him to take a spoon of cement and HTFU.
We all make it safely through the sandy washouts at the bottom of Gannaga Pass – by now we are all rally gods and our skills almost rival those of Jacko, the god of riding and driving all things offroad.
Kneelo rode the recce run for this bash and shows us exactly where to turn, his faultless navigation pulled from his own mental memory bank – no GPS for this oke. I think “wow” – this oke is gifted just like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. A few turns later I see the orange marker stickers with arrows pointing the way.
We slowly ride 3 abreast through the back gate at Stonehenge and stop in front of the circus tent, expecting to be welcomed by ululating Wild Dogs and uber-hot Tankwa chicks throwing their panties at us – nobody even looks up from their beers. There are no chicks here – WTF?
The horses are tied up and unsaddled. The 3 cowboys soon join their mates under the shade of the tent and down some cold beers.
We talk kak for a while and tell tall stories of lands conquered, virgins enlightened and bars quaffed dry.
I go outside and spot this.
Pissed-On Pete’s embarrassing bike of blingness in all its new black and orange glory. I quickly MMS my moodley half cousin Raj in Lenasia a pic cos I know he will smaak this. Raj sprays his SooBaRoo in the same colours the next day.
More Dogs arrive and the party gets underway. The bar is buzzing.
Fires are lit in preparation for the traditional Souf Efrican meat sacrificing ceremony
I order the Tankwa Veggie Special
and do the cooking for the Reccie Riders Crew in exchange for all I can drink.
The food is fantastic – big up to the local veggie farmers. Below is one of the farmers, Mof, checking out the latest crop
apparently he grows mean cabbages that taste just like sheep.
After dinner Butterbean retires to the lounge to discuss Nietzsche and Freud with the Greyhounds.
He soon realises he is way out of his depth and skilfully changes the topic of conversation to the hydroponic cultivation of turbo cabbage. Edgy leans forward in his seat and takes mental notes. I think the Bean’s “lighting business” is a cover up for something more green growing underground in Bree St. I am surrounded by skelms, the very people my mother warned me about – it is kief.
Jacko, Stoetie and Fouriekop take over the decks and are soon mixing De La Rey, Die Antwoord and David Kramer with some weird rhythmic underlay that sounds like an ossewa descending Die Hel. This plays on deep into the Tankwa night. Travolta and I pass out in each other’s arms. Kneelo has brought back the Group Areas Act and is camping with the laarney’s in their own fenced off security estate, far away from the “mense”.
On Saturday morning we get up early to see the Dogs off on their ride. We are going home today – this is the last stage of our Rally Tour.
For some weird unknown reason Travolta is absolutely gaga about Eish Pees. He tells me they are rarer than rocking horse shit in Turkey. There are a klomp Eish Pees here – Travolta has a semi. He takes pics of this famous one and its owner.
He cannot believe Leftless is, well, left less and still rides like he does. I wouldn’t have believed it either if I had never seen him in action – he is blerrie good and his lack of left does not slow him down one bit.
We watch from the hill as Leftless leads the Dogs out.
Soon it is our turn to say goodbye and we ride out of Stonehenge together. I am sad – our rally tour is nearly over.
We skim over the surface of the R355 – probably the kakkest and most dangerous gravel road in the country – dangerous because it is so boring it lulls you into riding / driving too fast for your own good. I see plenty of skid marks along the road – evidence of dozy drivers catching a nasty wake up call.
I ride ahead to get these last 2 shots of Kneelo and Travolta throwing up some dust.
Ceres is a chip and a put away. We pull in, fill up, and are off like a Jewish foreskin. This is not a lekker place to be on a Saturday morning – more crazy than a downtown market in Mumbai. People jaywalking, cars hooting, music blaring and tempers fraying – welcome back to “civilisation”
Kneelo leads the way out of town and we stop for a lunch at the top of Bain’s Kloof. Travolta buys us lunch. We all talk about our feelings and end off with a group hug.
At the bottom of Bain’s we skiet through Wellington and are soon on the N1. Kneelo and I peel off on to the M5 and Travolta rides straight to his possie in Greenpoint. Kneelo and I turn on to the N2 and then the M3 – he soon turns off in the direction of Hout Bay and waves goodbye. I am all alone – it feels really kak and I nearly cry in my helmet. 10 minutes later I am home and my bokkie and my laaitie are waiting for me on the tweespoor driveway. I forget all about Kneelo, Travolta and the Rally Tour. I am home.
THE END