Abandoned in Lesotho
- Thread starter DjfLoYd
- Start date
subie
Bachelor Dog
Lekker pics maar bou eerder jou rymaat op in jou RR as hom te laat lyk of hy gesukkel het.
More oor more is jy weer bietjie swakker op n trip miskien. Mens het nie altyd jou mojo op volle sterkte op elke trip nie :spitcoffee:
More oor more is jy weer bietjie swakker op n trip miskien. Mens het nie altyd jou mojo op volle sterkte op elke trip nie :spitcoffee:
Great read :biggrin:
Rolling Stone
Race Dog
:thumleft:subie said:
Bill p
Pack Dog
Lekker rr. Keep it coming. You have to develop some sence of humour though. :imaposer:
DjfLoYd
Pack Dog
subie said:
Subie, I'm no Marc Como by any means but the fact is my mate struggled on that pass. And like I said he's a better rider than what he allowed himself to
believe that day. I mentioned the trails and routes we rode earlier that week that were much more technical than Ongeluksnek and he did them by himself.
I guess the point I'm trying to get across is how badly he mentally psyched himself out after his "crash", not that he has less skill. I told him as much on the day.
I tried to help get his head cleared but it was a log jammed in there and it wasn't coming out. Believe me, I've done many miles with him and he can
handle himself on two wheels just fine. This is the beauty of the human psyche and of each of our unique personalities at work.
Welsh
Grumpy Mutt
DjfLoYd said:
I have seen similar in Lesotho, the guy had psyched himself so out of it he didn't want to get back on his bike..... in these situations a big tall bike can be a liability... once you have lost your mojo, they are just too intimidating... 8)
Jackol.
Race Dog
Lekker Report!!! Really enjoyed reading it and make me wanna get on the bike and do something similar!!! :ricky: :ricky: :ricky:
As you say on your mate's MOJO, he will get it back. A crash can seriously take confidence away, time in the saddle is the best medicine. Happened a few times to me already. :ricky:
As you say on your mate's MOJO, he will get it back. A crash can seriously take confidence away, time in the saddle is the best medicine. Happened a few times to me already. :ricky:
oldmannorman
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Phase 5...... :sip:.........
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ButtSlider
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Next phase please :sip:
Sub
mornepelser
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subie said:
Nee wat hy is 100% eerlik. Dit was holknyp allie pad vir my. Ek sal dit weer doen met n 690
DjfLoYd
Pack Dog
Next phase coming tomorrow, promise. Between work and watching the Dakar....well you know...
Thanks for reading so far!
Thanks for reading so far!
DjfLoYd
Pack Dog
Phase 5 - The Lone decision (Monday 8th Dec).
The alarm on my phone went off at 6am. Like a scolded racoon I bolted upright and hit the snooze button, falling back into the warm, luxurious arms
of my bed. I knew I had to get cracking, there was a long day ahead and we had a few extra kilos to catch up but I could do nothing other than lay
there and stare at the ceiling, slowly starting up all my senses one by one. Vision, check. I can see the ceiling. Hearing, check. I can hear nothing coming from
Morne’s side of the house but I can hear traffic outside. Touch, check. I can feel all the aching body parts and the soft pillow telling me to stay a while longer. Smell, check.
I can smell the rank odour of my boots in the far corner! To hell with this I need to get out of this room before I die of wet-boot-and-soggy-sock-asphyxiation.
I’m up and making coffee when Morne finally comes out and joins me for a cuppa. We saunter over to the dining hall but breakfast is not ready yet. We decide to wash the bikes
a little while we wait. I’ve seen cleaner petrol station toilets in Pongola.
The bikes are covered in clay mud but we manage to get most of it off, lube our chains and head off for a hearty breakfast in the dining hall.
I had fetched my map of Lesotho to show Morne the proposed route for the day while we were taking in copious amounts of coffee and
breakfast (doing it on a GPS screen is not convenient). While explaining the route step by step I could see Morne was not really there.
He was somewhere else. Or at least, wanting to be some where else. Eventually the elephant in the room could no longer hide behind
the pot plant. “I can’t do this” he said. “I don’t want to be here, or there for that matter.” he said pointing to the map with the proposed route
highlighted in green marker. There was a moment of silence, maybe more than a moment. I could see there was a massive amount of angst on Morne’s face.
This was not easy for him. I tried to process the implications of what he had just said. Riding off road alone is generally not a great idea, doing so on an unknown
route through another country maybe even less so. What if I had a medical emergency? No backup. Just me. Alone.
Everyone has a thought like Morne’s buried away in their mind when they encounter adversity but how they choose to deal with it is what makes us all unique.
It’s worth mentioning that I’m a fairly stubborn guy at the best of times. Once I put my mind to something I really don’t give up easily but
what I will never do is try to convince someone to do something they don’t want to do, regardless of whether or not I think they can do it.
And that is especially so when it comes to motorbiking. It’s a dangerous enough sport as it is but to put someone in a position where they are not
having fun, in fact hating it, is only asking for trouble. In my mind, however, there was only one option, I was going to complete the route through Lesotho.
I will happily accept any accusations of selfishness on my part but I was going to do this route with or without Morne. I told him as much. I could
see a fair amount of guilt on his face for abandoning me but that was quickly washed away by a look of relief, knowing he did not have to possibly face another Ongeluksnek Pass.
We settled on the plan and quickly made preparations to head out. Morne was going to take the tar roads and head home and I was going to head on back into Lesotho via
Qachas nek. The only deviation of my planned route as I was told that Ramatsileso was in almost as bad a state as Ongeluksnek and now that I was “male moto” I felt a few less
risks were probably a good idea. Sitting here now - I should’ve taken the Rama route but oh well. We said our goodbyes, Morne giving me some extra tools and fretting over
things like an anxious mom sending her boy off on his first camping trip. Gotta love the guy. We agreed to SMS each other on route as much as would be possible.
In hindsight, I’m convinced we made the right choice.
Having filled up the night before I headed straight out to Qacha’s nek, the sun already fairly high up in the clear blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.
Qachas nek is fairly scenic and makes for a pleasant ride. Just don’t look at the scenery too much or you’ll likely end up a hood ornament on someone’s car. There’s a fair
amount of traffic on that road come Monday morning. The border control was fairly busy too but nothing like Maseru.
Having cleared the border post and all it’s formalities, of which I was concerned because I did not have an exit stamp from the Lesotho side, I stopped a few meters from the border offices
and just took a moment to gather my thoughts. The dynamic had now changed somewhat. I was man alone. No riding partner. No wingman. I suddenly had a pang of remorse at
splitting up with Morne as I looked out over the landscape before me. It was foreboding. It was unknown. I won’t lie, I had a few more pangs and one or two of them
may have been of fear. But I will swear under oath, in a court of law, to the contrary if you ever bring this up in conversation. The weather was fresh, the sky clear and the road
beckoned, I quickly brushed aside my doubts and reminded myself that this is why I was here. To ride. I’ve done many trips alone and that I needed to cowboy the **** up.
***I’m hopeful that, in my afore-mentioned Hollywood movie deal, Bruce Willis plays the part of me****
[flash=320,280]https://www.youtube.com/v/jGyAANIs8XU[/flash]
I headed north toward Mpiti and then hit the road eastwards towards Sehlabathebe. I’ve said it before and I will say it again. The views are simply stunning. The road itself was
in great nick and I could average a fairly good turn of speed. I won’t lie - not having to look back to make sure Morne was still there and not having to stop and wait was a load
off my shoulders. I always feel a sense of responsibility when someone rides with me and not having to worry about anyone but numero uno was a welcome change. I stopped
every now and then to admire the views of the Senqu river below as it slithered and snaked along the route.
My plan was to make it to Katse dam for the night. The weather though, had other ideas. Having started late that morning I only got to Sehlabathebe
by about 12pm. Up until then I had nothing but clear skies and a fine cool breeze but as I turned north west towards Matebeng that all started to change. And not in a good way.
The clouds started rolling in and rain started falling sporadically along the route getting progressively worse the closer I got to Thaba Tseka.
I could see clear patches here and there but generally it was just raining ahead of me.
I pressed on, hitting one turn after another, climbing and descending and then climbing again. Passing village after village, little kids running out from their mud huts towards the road, armed
with stones or holding out hands and gesticulating for sweets or money. For the record I saw only one kid take a swing at me with a stone (that missed) and it did occur to me to go
back and kick his arse but though better of it. I hear prison in Lesotho ain’t exactly the Ritz Carlton. From Sehlabathebe the road towards Thaba Tseka got interesting. Heading towards Matabeng Pass I crossed
countless little rivers, swollen somewhat by the rain. I had to stop and check more than a few for depth before I crossed them, the water moving slowly as if deeper than expected. A few were.
This was epic riding. I was in heaven! Climbing up Matabeng pass in bursts of rain was not as bad as one would think, my little 690 KTM just devoured the twisty switch backs, the Michelin tyres grabbing handfuls
of mud and flinging it out the way. I found myself giving it the old “Yeeehaaa!” around almost every corner, the rain barely dampening my mood, despite it’s best efforts. Descending on the other side proved
to be just as much fun and just as wet. Little streams criss-crossed the road but the grip was excellent and I powered down and onwards towards Thaba-Tseka.
Running along the A4 I saw in the distance what appeared to be a distinct lack of road. As I approached I could see that, in fact, the road had been removed. By considerable force.
The rain must have created a mud slide that washed away a good 10 meters of road. In it’s place the mud slide had politely left an assortment of rocks (of various sizes), some fine mud
and a smattering of tree parts. I was not certain how long ago this had happened but clearly some people had come along since. I could see on the far side, where the road resumed, that there
was a step up path worn into the embankment. Nothing major, maybe half a meter tall. Path selected. Let’s go. I dropped the front wheel into the mud slide and immediately realised I should have
done the old check-it-for-firmness test. My front wheel sank into the mud, too late! Give it horns! I rolled on the gas and powered my way to the other side. Mud hurling off the back tyre into the air.
I must’ve looked like a speed boat roosting anyone and anything behind me. I hit the step up and the front wheel headed skywards, controlled the throttle, brought it back to earth and then gassed it again
to get the back wheel up and over. I am Marc bloody Coma! That was my last thought before I felt a jolt of pain run up my left leg. It originated somewhere near my left ankle. The bike hopped to one side and
I stopped dead. In my moment of Marc Coma-ness I had trailed my left foot behind the bike on the ground and due to the difference in height between the step up and the road I had basically ridden over my
left foot by jamming it between my side pannier bag and the back tyre. I was not amused. Luckily the Alpinestars boots did the job and after walking it off I was actually none the worse for where.
It did give me a small reality check though. I mounted up and carried on. Ahead the weather was again looking like rain and Thaba Tseka was still a ways away.
I rounded a corner, coming up over a rise and was hit square in the visor by what sounded like David’s stone aimed at Goliath. Only there was a wall of stones not just one. Before I could
say what the f…. I found myself being rained on with an accompaniment of hail. I quickly pulled over to don my rain suit. I keep my rain suit in a bag on the top of my tail bag for easy and quick access.
I don’t normally put on my rain suit as my riding jacket is fairly water resistant and I can go some distance in the rain before getting soaked but I could see this rain was heavy and hard.
The hail had thankfully petered down to small pea-sized stones but this didn’t really matter anymore because there I was, pulled over on the side of the road, up on a mountain, in the rain, trying to put on a rain
suite with very, very little success. The wind was not helping either. Note to self, it is easier to put on a rain suit before you get wet. My wet hands were getting hooked up in the netting inside my rain jacket and I
was struggling to get my hands through the sleeves. My riding jacket was hooking into the netting as well, serving to compound the issue. I was having a sense of humour failure of epic proportions.
I started off by shouting at my rain suit. As if talking to my inanimate jacket would make it suddenly climb onto me. As things worsened, I started swearing at it. Loudly. I now had one arm half way down the one
sleeve, pointing upwards and the other arm behind my back trying to gain entry into the other sleeve but hooking on the netting. I was still being rained on. Just then a car passed and I saw 4 Lesotho nationals
looking out from the dry car interior at what I can only imagine, to them, looked like a mad person, wearing half a jacket, convulsing with flailing arms in the air and swearing out loud while having a Tourettes-laced epileptic seizure.
They did not stop. In fact they did that look-forward-and-pretend-you-did-not-just-see-that manoeuvre. I think a mother covered her child’s eyes.
Some considerable swearing later the rain jacket was on. I was out of breath and I was still holding the rain suit pants in my hand.
Forget that, I shoved the pants back into the bag and climbed on my bike and rode the last few kilometers to Thaba Tseka.
The rain stopped exactly 3Km later. Seriously?! What the hell! The quickest way to stop the rain is to put on a rain proof suit.
I rolled into Thaba Tseka around 4.30pm. The sky was dark with rain clouds and the light was going fast. I stopped at a petrol station on the outskirts of town and filled up.
A local came up and filled my bike with petrol while I asked him about the road from there to Katse. “One hour and half.” he said in broken English.
It was now quarter to 5 and there was even less daylight on offer. I could literally see it get darker each time I blinked.
I turned to ask him some more questions but he had disappeared. For a moment I thought this place dispensed free petrol but out of no where a small Chinese man appeared at my side with a receipt.
I paid over some Maluti’s and tried to ask him about the road but he flat out signalled that English was not on the menu at all.
I wondered for a second how they communicated with the locals.
I decided I would call it a day at Thaba Tseka. I was plenty tired, wet and cold and didn’t think it prudent to try and make it to Katse alone, not in the rain and in the dark at least.
I wondered back towards the centre of town and pulled in at the first decent looking accommodation I could see that had more than one car parked there.
Turned out, I’m pretty sure I found the local brothel instead.
After walking into reception and asking for a room for the night I was told no rooms were available for the night but I could get a room for a short while *nudge nudge wink wink*.
At first I stared blankly at the “receptionist” not being a man of such experience it took me a second to look around and notice just how much the colour red featured in the area and how dim the lights were.
Lots of lace too. I remember the lace. I quickly pardoned my intrusion and left.
Thaba Tseka reminds me of Marabastad in the western end of Pretoria central. It’s not pretty. I didn’t hold out much hope for the lodge I had found a little up the road from the other, er, lodge.
As it turned out Mohale Oa Masite Lodge was not entirely terrible. On the outside it actually looked fairly good.
And it actually was. Mind you, my standards were not high and anything with a bed, bath and a flushing toilet was going to score highly.
This had it all. I decided not to eat at the lodge’s restaurant for fear of getting Dehli Belly or in this case the Thaba Tseka Trots and instead tackled their bar for some beers.
I went back to my room and ate my rations of droe wors and nuts. Washing it all down with the beer I had bought at the bar.
I’m sure the restaurant would’ve been fine in fairness, it was all very civilised.
It was then that I felt the absence of my buddy and riding partner. The whole day I was focused on not crashing and enjoying the views and having a great ride.
Now, though, alone in the hotel room with no one to talk to and no one to reminisce over the days ride, I was rather lonely.
I called my wife to try and make some noise in the room, hoping to alleviate the lonely feeling. As she answered I realised my mistake. I was alone. Morne was almost home.
If she found out I was alone she would stress more so than she already had, possibly even ask me to cut my trip short (not that it was possible really).
I made a promise to myself not to lie to her. This was going to be an interesting conversation.
Ending the phone call, I mentally patted myself on the back, I had managed not to lie to her regarding Morne’s absence.
I simply failed to disclose that information and as luck would have it she never directly asked me how Morne was doing.
Her questions were broad enough to allow me room to be vague enough in my responses.
No point making her worry, after all, we all know I would not abandon my route anyway.
Qacha’s Nek, just after the border post on the Lesotho side. Thought’s collected, head checked. Let’s ride.
Just before Sehlabathebe. Quick rest stop. Behind me is a cell tower I think, so I pulled off the main road a little for some privacy.
Coming slightly down from the mountains towards Sehlabathebe
Looking back at Sehlabathebe, just before the start of the Matabeng Pass.
Matabeng Pass (heading up). Already the weather had turned sour and rain was making things a little bit interesting but still a fairly easy pass to do either way.
Heading down Matabeng pass on the other side The weather not looking much better.
Coming down that pass in the wet, a riders perspective. Not too difficult. One or two rocky sections and a few ruts.
A brief respite from the rain called for a quick stop for a bite to eat. Had to do the solo rider photo bit.
The Bike resting too.
Running along the Qulu river, a small tributary river that feeds into the Senqu. The rain had washed away the road completely. Leaving rocks and a step up to get back onto the road.
Looking down at the Senqu river. About half way between Sehlabathebe and Thaba Tseka.
The alarm on my phone went off at 6am. Like a scolded racoon I bolted upright and hit the snooze button, falling back into the warm, luxurious arms
of my bed. I knew I had to get cracking, there was a long day ahead and we had a few extra kilos to catch up but I could do nothing other than lay
there and stare at the ceiling, slowly starting up all my senses one by one. Vision, check. I can see the ceiling. Hearing, check. I can hear nothing coming from
Morne’s side of the house but I can hear traffic outside. Touch, check. I can feel all the aching body parts and the soft pillow telling me to stay a while longer. Smell, check.
I can smell the rank odour of my boots in the far corner! To hell with this I need to get out of this room before I die of wet-boot-and-soggy-sock-asphyxiation.
I’m up and making coffee when Morne finally comes out and joins me for a cuppa. We saunter over to the dining hall but breakfast is not ready yet. We decide to wash the bikes
a little while we wait. I’ve seen cleaner petrol station toilets in Pongola.
The bikes are covered in clay mud but we manage to get most of it off, lube our chains and head off for a hearty breakfast in the dining hall.
I had fetched my map of Lesotho to show Morne the proposed route for the day while we were taking in copious amounts of coffee and
breakfast (doing it on a GPS screen is not convenient). While explaining the route step by step I could see Morne was not really there.
He was somewhere else. Or at least, wanting to be some where else. Eventually the elephant in the room could no longer hide behind
the pot plant. “I can’t do this” he said. “I don’t want to be here, or there for that matter.” he said pointing to the map with the proposed route
highlighted in green marker. There was a moment of silence, maybe more than a moment. I could see there was a massive amount of angst on Morne’s face.
This was not easy for him. I tried to process the implications of what he had just said. Riding off road alone is generally not a great idea, doing so on an unknown
route through another country maybe even less so. What if I had a medical emergency? No backup. Just me. Alone.
Everyone has a thought like Morne’s buried away in their mind when they encounter adversity but how they choose to deal with it is what makes us all unique.
It’s worth mentioning that I’m a fairly stubborn guy at the best of times. Once I put my mind to something I really don’t give up easily but
what I will never do is try to convince someone to do something they don’t want to do, regardless of whether or not I think they can do it.
And that is especially so when it comes to motorbiking. It’s a dangerous enough sport as it is but to put someone in a position where they are not
having fun, in fact hating it, is only asking for trouble. In my mind, however, there was only one option, I was going to complete the route through Lesotho.
I will happily accept any accusations of selfishness on my part but I was going to do this route with or without Morne. I told him as much. I could
see a fair amount of guilt on his face for abandoning me but that was quickly washed away by a look of relief, knowing he did not have to possibly face another Ongeluksnek Pass.
We settled on the plan and quickly made preparations to head out. Morne was going to take the tar roads and head home and I was going to head on back into Lesotho via
Qachas nek. The only deviation of my planned route as I was told that Ramatsileso was in almost as bad a state as Ongeluksnek and now that I was “male moto” I felt a few less
risks were probably a good idea. Sitting here now - I should’ve taken the Rama route but oh well. We said our goodbyes, Morne giving me some extra tools and fretting over
things like an anxious mom sending her boy off on his first camping trip. Gotta love the guy. We agreed to SMS each other on route as much as would be possible.
In hindsight, I’m convinced we made the right choice.
Having filled up the night before I headed straight out to Qacha’s nek, the sun already fairly high up in the clear blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.
Qachas nek is fairly scenic and makes for a pleasant ride. Just don’t look at the scenery too much or you’ll likely end up a hood ornament on someone’s car. There’s a fair
amount of traffic on that road come Monday morning. The border control was fairly busy too but nothing like Maseru.
Having cleared the border post and all it’s formalities, of which I was concerned because I did not have an exit stamp from the Lesotho side, I stopped a few meters from the border offices
and just took a moment to gather my thoughts. The dynamic had now changed somewhat. I was man alone. No riding partner. No wingman. I suddenly had a pang of remorse at
splitting up with Morne as I looked out over the landscape before me. It was foreboding. It was unknown. I won’t lie, I had a few more pangs and one or two of them
may have been of fear. But I will swear under oath, in a court of law, to the contrary if you ever bring this up in conversation. The weather was fresh, the sky clear and the road
beckoned, I quickly brushed aside my doubts and reminded myself that this is why I was here. To ride. I’ve done many trips alone and that I needed to cowboy the **** up.
***I’m hopeful that, in my afore-mentioned Hollywood movie deal, Bruce Willis plays the part of me****
[flash=320,280]https://www.youtube.com/v/jGyAANIs8XU[/flash]
I headed north toward Mpiti and then hit the road eastwards towards Sehlabathebe. I’ve said it before and I will say it again. The views are simply stunning. The road itself was
in great nick and I could average a fairly good turn of speed. I won’t lie - not having to look back to make sure Morne was still there and not having to stop and wait was a load
off my shoulders. I always feel a sense of responsibility when someone rides with me and not having to worry about anyone but numero uno was a welcome change. I stopped
every now and then to admire the views of the Senqu river below as it slithered and snaked along the route.
My plan was to make it to Katse dam for the night. The weather though, had other ideas. Having started late that morning I only got to Sehlabathebe
by about 12pm. Up until then I had nothing but clear skies and a fine cool breeze but as I turned north west towards Matebeng that all started to change. And not in a good way.
The clouds started rolling in and rain started falling sporadically along the route getting progressively worse the closer I got to Thaba Tseka.
I could see clear patches here and there but generally it was just raining ahead of me.
I pressed on, hitting one turn after another, climbing and descending and then climbing again. Passing village after village, little kids running out from their mud huts towards the road, armed
with stones or holding out hands and gesticulating for sweets or money. For the record I saw only one kid take a swing at me with a stone (that missed) and it did occur to me to go
back and kick his arse but though better of it. I hear prison in Lesotho ain’t exactly the Ritz Carlton. From Sehlabathebe the road towards Thaba Tseka got interesting. Heading towards Matabeng Pass I crossed
countless little rivers, swollen somewhat by the rain. I had to stop and check more than a few for depth before I crossed them, the water moving slowly as if deeper than expected. A few were.
This was epic riding. I was in heaven! Climbing up Matabeng pass in bursts of rain was not as bad as one would think, my little 690 KTM just devoured the twisty switch backs, the Michelin tyres grabbing handfuls
of mud and flinging it out the way. I found myself giving it the old “Yeeehaaa!” around almost every corner, the rain barely dampening my mood, despite it’s best efforts. Descending on the other side proved
to be just as much fun and just as wet. Little streams criss-crossed the road but the grip was excellent and I powered down and onwards towards Thaba-Tseka.
Running along the A4 I saw in the distance what appeared to be a distinct lack of road. As I approached I could see that, in fact, the road had been removed. By considerable force.
The rain must have created a mud slide that washed away a good 10 meters of road. In it’s place the mud slide had politely left an assortment of rocks (of various sizes), some fine mud
and a smattering of tree parts. I was not certain how long ago this had happened but clearly some people had come along since. I could see on the far side, where the road resumed, that there
was a step up path worn into the embankment. Nothing major, maybe half a meter tall. Path selected. Let’s go. I dropped the front wheel into the mud slide and immediately realised I should have
done the old check-it-for-firmness test. My front wheel sank into the mud, too late! Give it horns! I rolled on the gas and powered my way to the other side. Mud hurling off the back tyre into the air.
I must’ve looked like a speed boat roosting anyone and anything behind me. I hit the step up and the front wheel headed skywards, controlled the throttle, brought it back to earth and then gassed it again
to get the back wheel up and over. I am Marc bloody Coma! That was my last thought before I felt a jolt of pain run up my left leg. It originated somewhere near my left ankle. The bike hopped to one side and
I stopped dead. In my moment of Marc Coma-ness I had trailed my left foot behind the bike on the ground and due to the difference in height between the step up and the road I had basically ridden over my
left foot by jamming it between my side pannier bag and the back tyre. I was not amused. Luckily the Alpinestars boots did the job and after walking it off I was actually none the worse for where.
It did give me a small reality check though. I mounted up and carried on. Ahead the weather was again looking like rain and Thaba Tseka was still a ways away.
I rounded a corner, coming up over a rise and was hit square in the visor by what sounded like David’s stone aimed at Goliath. Only there was a wall of stones not just one. Before I could
say what the f…. I found myself being rained on with an accompaniment of hail. I quickly pulled over to don my rain suit. I keep my rain suit in a bag on the top of my tail bag for easy and quick access.
I don’t normally put on my rain suit as my riding jacket is fairly water resistant and I can go some distance in the rain before getting soaked but I could see this rain was heavy and hard.
The hail had thankfully petered down to small pea-sized stones but this didn’t really matter anymore because there I was, pulled over on the side of the road, up on a mountain, in the rain, trying to put on a rain
suite with very, very little success. The wind was not helping either. Note to self, it is easier to put on a rain suit before you get wet. My wet hands were getting hooked up in the netting inside my rain jacket and I
was struggling to get my hands through the sleeves. My riding jacket was hooking into the netting as well, serving to compound the issue. I was having a sense of humour failure of epic proportions.
I started off by shouting at my rain suit. As if talking to my inanimate jacket would make it suddenly climb onto me. As things worsened, I started swearing at it. Loudly. I now had one arm half way down the one
sleeve, pointing upwards and the other arm behind my back trying to gain entry into the other sleeve but hooking on the netting. I was still being rained on. Just then a car passed and I saw 4 Lesotho nationals
looking out from the dry car interior at what I can only imagine, to them, looked like a mad person, wearing half a jacket, convulsing with flailing arms in the air and swearing out loud while having a Tourettes-laced epileptic seizure.
They did not stop. In fact they did that look-forward-and-pretend-you-did-not-just-see-that manoeuvre. I think a mother covered her child’s eyes.
Some considerable swearing later the rain jacket was on. I was out of breath and I was still holding the rain suit pants in my hand.
Forget that, I shoved the pants back into the bag and climbed on my bike and rode the last few kilometers to Thaba Tseka.
The rain stopped exactly 3Km later. Seriously?! What the hell! The quickest way to stop the rain is to put on a rain proof suit.
I rolled into Thaba Tseka around 4.30pm. The sky was dark with rain clouds and the light was going fast. I stopped at a petrol station on the outskirts of town and filled up.
A local came up and filled my bike with petrol while I asked him about the road from there to Katse. “One hour and half.” he said in broken English.
It was now quarter to 5 and there was even less daylight on offer. I could literally see it get darker each time I blinked.
I turned to ask him some more questions but he had disappeared. For a moment I thought this place dispensed free petrol but out of no where a small Chinese man appeared at my side with a receipt.
I paid over some Maluti’s and tried to ask him about the road but he flat out signalled that English was not on the menu at all.
I wondered for a second how they communicated with the locals.
I decided I would call it a day at Thaba Tseka. I was plenty tired, wet and cold and didn’t think it prudent to try and make it to Katse alone, not in the rain and in the dark at least.
I wondered back towards the centre of town and pulled in at the first decent looking accommodation I could see that had more than one car parked there.
Turned out, I’m pretty sure I found the local brothel instead.
After walking into reception and asking for a room for the night I was told no rooms were available for the night but I could get a room for a short while *nudge nudge wink wink*.
At first I stared blankly at the “receptionist” not being a man of such experience it took me a second to look around and notice just how much the colour red featured in the area and how dim the lights were.
Lots of lace too. I remember the lace. I quickly pardoned my intrusion and left.
Thaba Tseka reminds me of Marabastad in the western end of Pretoria central. It’s not pretty. I didn’t hold out much hope for the lodge I had found a little up the road from the other, er, lodge.
As it turned out Mohale Oa Masite Lodge was not entirely terrible. On the outside it actually looked fairly good.
And it actually was. Mind you, my standards were not high and anything with a bed, bath and a flushing toilet was going to score highly.
This had it all. I decided not to eat at the lodge’s restaurant for fear of getting Dehli Belly or in this case the Thaba Tseka Trots and instead tackled their bar for some beers.
I went back to my room and ate my rations of droe wors and nuts. Washing it all down with the beer I had bought at the bar.
I’m sure the restaurant would’ve been fine in fairness, it was all very civilised.
It was then that I felt the absence of my buddy and riding partner. The whole day I was focused on not crashing and enjoying the views and having a great ride.
Now, though, alone in the hotel room with no one to talk to and no one to reminisce over the days ride, I was rather lonely.
I called my wife to try and make some noise in the room, hoping to alleviate the lonely feeling. As she answered I realised my mistake. I was alone. Morne was almost home.
If she found out I was alone she would stress more so than she already had, possibly even ask me to cut my trip short (not that it was possible really).
I made a promise to myself not to lie to her. This was going to be an interesting conversation.
Ending the phone call, I mentally patted myself on the back, I had managed not to lie to her regarding Morne’s absence.
I simply failed to disclose that information and as luck would have it she never directly asked me how Morne was doing.
Her questions were broad enough to allow me room to be vague enough in my responses.
No point making her worry, after all, we all know I would not abandon my route anyway.
Qacha’s Nek, just after the border post on the Lesotho side. Thought’s collected, head checked. Let’s ride.
Just before Sehlabathebe. Quick rest stop. Behind me is a cell tower I think, so I pulled off the main road a little for some privacy.
Coming slightly down from the mountains towards Sehlabathebe
Looking back at Sehlabathebe, just before the start of the Matabeng Pass.
Matabeng Pass (heading up). Already the weather had turned sour and rain was making things a little bit interesting but still a fairly easy pass to do either way.
Heading down Matabeng pass on the other side The weather not looking much better.
Coming down that pass in the wet, a riders perspective. Not too difficult. One or two rocky sections and a few ruts.
A brief respite from the rain called for a quick stop for a bite to eat. Had to do the solo rider photo bit.
The Bike resting too.
Running along the Qulu river, a small tributary river that feeds into the Senqu. The rain had washed away the road completely. Leaving rocks and a step up to get back onto the road.
Looking down at the Senqu river. About half way between Sehlabathebe and Thaba Tseka.
mornepelser
Race Dog
- Joined
- Aug 26, 2013
- Messages
- 645
- Reaction score
- 13
- Location
- Bronkhorstspruit
- Bike
- Honda XL650V Transalp
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