This was my first trip with Wild Dog Forum, and also a first multi-day ‘gravel travel’ trip for Mrs Pluto on her Honda CRF 230. Our little ‘sub’ groeppie for Friday's 'pre trip ride', comprised me, Mrs P, Nicky and Hugo – all plastic bike owners, left Cape Town early, got to Citrusdal by cage towing a trailer, where we met up with Kubus and Theo, on their adventure bikes.
Shortly before lunchtime, we unloaded our bikes, and started riding where the black stuff finished; about 8 kays north of the dorp. Someone had to drive the cage, and that was me.
We had a great trip to Oasis, going via Algeria, Cedarberg Wines (where we stopped for a picnic), and Sanddrif.
This being our first trip to Oasis, we were all pleasantly surprised with the set up, and certainly weren’t disappointed with the house speciality – spare ribs! We had a great evening meeting the rest of the riding party.
On Sat morning Mrs P was a tad nervous. I know she wasn't the only one. Little did we know, but our group was in for an interesting Saturday adventure. Elsewhere pictures will tell the story, but for the main, there was an accident, some punctures, getting lost, some offs, a bike that kept on jumping off the trailer, some more punctures, some super soft sand for coming off, some more getting lost, some water crossings, and opening/closing of fences.
Our Saturday night destination was Stonehenge, and it must have mystical magnetic forces, cause all the lost and unlost people arrived at the venue within 15 minutes of one another. Missing from Stonehenge is the colour green.
The first part of its name tells you what is in abundance on the farm, and the second part aptly describes the architecture (henge = prehistoric structure). It is an out-worldly place, after-the-apocalypse, recycled, home-made, and a visual, if not bizarre delight. Dark-can’t-see-in-the-pub, big sky, lunar landscape, quirky sculptures haphazardly scattered here and there, and a wind of Biblical gusto and proportion.
The wind and accompanying dust storm was completely in keeping with the place; if it weren't that, then a massive conflagration, oppressive heat, volcano, tsunami, earthquake, aurora borealis, parting of the waters, or similar natural phenomena would not be out of place.
Inside the ‘lounge’ , there was only a little less dust and wind; the fact there was no grit in the chops and wors (braaied outside by Mr Malawi), is more proof of Stonehenge’s mystical properties. This force must have aligned the planets perfectly over the braai, and send anti-matter to ward grit off the meat. There can be no other explanation; it is impossible for mere mortals to braai at all in a dust storm of such magnitude.
After an excellent meal and post dinner drinks, most guests were blown away to their place of sleep. Somewhere near our tent there was a pole attached to a flap, and this flap-pole-thing went wadda-wadda-wadda –wadda-wadda in the wind all night long. It didn't sound much different from the badda-babba-babba-badda of bike engines all day long, so it was easy to fall asleep.
At dawn the next morning, I awoke to that famous Simon and Garfunkel song, ‘sounds of silence’ - yay the wind had died down! During the night, some planets must have been blown off course a bit, because mystical forces dealt us some slow punctures to fix.
Due to all the stones everywhere, as in E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E, Stonehenge has a commercial puncture repair workshop. In an emergency, I can wrestle a tire off a rim to get to the tube, and put it all together again. But if I don’t have to break into a sweat by breakfast, skin all my knuckles, and break my fingernails, I would rather pay someone else do the job – that’s why I go to work Monday to Friday.
Last night’s Mr Malawi the mystical braai master, and this morning’s fried egg flipper at breakfast, also happened to be the one and only tire mechanic. My bike had a flat back, ditto Shaun, and Russell’s backup bakkie’s back right tire was sporting a massive bee sting-wart-type of bubble coming out the tread.
Immediately after the last egg was flipped, Mr Malawi downed his kitchen tools, strode off to workshop, with us three pap wielle in tow. The ‘workshop’ was a container around the corner from the kitchen, disguised on one side with some falling down latte. Inside the container, it was just chaos, as if the container and its contents had just fallen off the back of a truck, rolled down a steep bank, and landed ajar at Stonehenge (those planets again!). Massive pile of tubes in one corner, steel cabinet with rickety shelving; shelving piled higgledy-piggledy with cardboard boxes, a compressor in the way, pipes on the floor, toolbox with tools spilling out.
Mr Malawi entered the container, and stepping gingerly, as if crossing a minefield, somehow got to the generator without tripping over anything, and fired it up.
Among the din and smoke coming from a loud petrol generator in the confined container, and a Malawian who can’t speak English, it was a waste of time explaining to him about the back wheel rim lock.
I shouted, ‘do you know about rim locks?’ He nodded and carried on with the tire irons. He didn't know, and soon I realized this repair was sizing up to be a wrestling match; Mr Malawi versus Rim Lock’ .
Over the noise and smoke, and in international sign language I motioned that he should undo the Rim Lock bolt, and then with more sign language approximating shoving an onion into a chicken carcass before you put it on the Weber, he should push the Rim Lock towards the tire tread.
As Mr Malawi was grunting and groaning with the tire irons, Russell back-up bakkie appeared, needing an angle grinder. He’d lost the key to the padlock chaining up his spare wheel, and the only solution was to cut the lock off. An extension lead was plugged into the generator, same lead draped over Mr Malawi, and Russell slithered under his bakkie to add to the bedlam and noise, with that aggressive angle grinder cutting away at the lock amidst a shower of sparks. (Did I tell you the spare wheel is about 1 meter away from the bakkie’s fuel tank?).
I watched Mr Malawi work with interest. He was quite happy working on an old wooden pallet, in an uncomfortable bending over position, rather than at a work table. Each time he put a tool down, he had to do so with great care, lest the tool fall though the gaps in the pallet. It was inevitable, as he stood up to scratch around for a tool just outside his reach, he bumped the tire irons and they fell through the pallet. This continual picking up of tools from underneath the pallet and bent over working seemed so illogical, and well stupid; why make it harder than it already is?
Mr Malawi showed his finesse and experience when it came to spooning the tire onto the rim. With the greatest and utmost care, like laying down a sleeping baby in a crib, Mr Malawi gently, gently worked the tire onto the rim without pinching the tube. Not even Russell tapping him on the shoulder, ‘have you got a jack?’ put Mr Malawi off his task.
With a satisfying ‘ schluurp’ the tire was on.
In the meantime another 3 adventure bikers had arrived at the workshop with a tire problem. Unfazed with the pressure mounting, Mr Malawi went about his work, with breath-taking efficiency; he knew exactly where everything was, and (bar the rim lock) had seen it all before.
In a 1980’s book by Robert Pruzzig entitled, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance the author describes this exact scenario. He says there are two types of mechanics; those like Mr Malawi who seem to operate well with tools and parts and stuff scattered about haphazardly, and the other type who is the exact opposite. This mechanic; Mr Order, can’t operate in chaos. Indeed these mechanics have their tools hanging up on a wall, each one silhouetted, everything neat and tidy.
This book is an inquiry into quality values. If, in the mechanic scenario, say both mechanics had to fix a flat, and if Mr Malawi fixed it properly his way in a chaotic workshop, and Mr Order fixed it properly in his way in his neat and tidy workshop, who is to say is the better mechanic? The book asks if there difference in quality between the two different mechanic styles?
The difference between the two styles is due to a personal data storing method. Mr Malawi stores data (in this case, where is my 13 spanner?) by associating its position relative to the generator, and/or some other object. His data storage is pattern orientated, among this landscape of seeming chaos, the position of everything is related, and he knows where everything is.
On the other hand, Mr Order has to have a specific place for a specific thing. His style is boxing and labelling all data, without which, he cannot operate.
Thanks to Mr Chaos Malawi, we all departed Stonhenge happy campers, and onwards to our next leg of the journey to Tanwka Padstal. Again, pictures will tell the story. The short one in words goes like this; opening and closing of gates, oaks almost seeing their gats on one particular sharp corner, some going to some dam, others not, others going this way, others that-a-way, another puncture, adventure bike on the trailer, fix puncture at burnt down padstal. All leave en mass; some going this-a-way to Cape Town, others that-a-way.
What a great trip! Well done to Brett and the back-up drivers. Truly amazing!
Shortly before lunchtime, we unloaded our bikes, and started riding where the black stuff finished; about 8 kays north of the dorp. Someone had to drive the cage, and that was me.
We had a great trip to Oasis, going via Algeria, Cedarberg Wines (where we stopped for a picnic), and Sanddrif.
This being our first trip to Oasis, we were all pleasantly surprised with the set up, and certainly weren’t disappointed with the house speciality – spare ribs! We had a great evening meeting the rest of the riding party.
On Sat morning Mrs P was a tad nervous. I know she wasn't the only one. Little did we know, but our group was in for an interesting Saturday adventure. Elsewhere pictures will tell the story, but for the main, there was an accident, some punctures, getting lost, some offs, a bike that kept on jumping off the trailer, some more punctures, some super soft sand for coming off, some more getting lost, some water crossings, and opening/closing of fences.
Our Saturday night destination was Stonehenge, and it must have mystical magnetic forces, cause all the lost and unlost people arrived at the venue within 15 minutes of one another. Missing from Stonehenge is the colour green.
The first part of its name tells you what is in abundance on the farm, and the second part aptly describes the architecture (henge = prehistoric structure). It is an out-worldly place, after-the-apocalypse, recycled, home-made, and a visual, if not bizarre delight. Dark-can’t-see-in-the-pub, big sky, lunar landscape, quirky sculptures haphazardly scattered here and there, and a wind of Biblical gusto and proportion.
The wind and accompanying dust storm was completely in keeping with the place; if it weren't that, then a massive conflagration, oppressive heat, volcano, tsunami, earthquake, aurora borealis, parting of the waters, or similar natural phenomena would not be out of place.
Inside the ‘lounge’ , there was only a little less dust and wind; the fact there was no grit in the chops and wors (braaied outside by Mr Malawi), is more proof of Stonehenge’s mystical properties. This force must have aligned the planets perfectly over the braai, and send anti-matter to ward grit off the meat. There can be no other explanation; it is impossible for mere mortals to braai at all in a dust storm of such magnitude.
After an excellent meal and post dinner drinks, most guests were blown away to their place of sleep. Somewhere near our tent there was a pole attached to a flap, and this flap-pole-thing went wadda-wadda-wadda –wadda-wadda in the wind all night long. It didn't sound much different from the badda-babba-babba-badda of bike engines all day long, so it was easy to fall asleep.
At dawn the next morning, I awoke to that famous Simon and Garfunkel song, ‘sounds of silence’ - yay the wind had died down! During the night, some planets must have been blown off course a bit, because mystical forces dealt us some slow punctures to fix.
Due to all the stones everywhere, as in E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E, Stonehenge has a commercial puncture repair workshop. In an emergency, I can wrestle a tire off a rim to get to the tube, and put it all together again. But if I don’t have to break into a sweat by breakfast, skin all my knuckles, and break my fingernails, I would rather pay someone else do the job – that’s why I go to work Monday to Friday.
Last night’s Mr Malawi the mystical braai master, and this morning’s fried egg flipper at breakfast, also happened to be the one and only tire mechanic. My bike had a flat back, ditto Shaun, and Russell’s backup bakkie’s back right tire was sporting a massive bee sting-wart-type of bubble coming out the tread.
Immediately after the last egg was flipped, Mr Malawi downed his kitchen tools, strode off to workshop, with us three pap wielle in tow. The ‘workshop’ was a container around the corner from the kitchen, disguised on one side with some falling down latte. Inside the container, it was just chaos, as if the container and its contents had just fallen off the back of a truck, rolled down a steep bank, and landed ajar at Stonehenge (those planets again!). Massive pile of tubes in one corner, steel cabinet with rickety shelving; shelving piled higgledy-piggledy with cardboard boxes, a compressor in the way, pipes on the floor, toolbox with tools spilling out.
Mr Malawi entered the container, and stepping gingerly, as if crossing a minefield, somehow got to the generator without tripping over anything, and fired it up.
Among the din and smoke coming from a loud petrol generator in the confined container, and a Malawian who can’t speak English, it was a waste of time explaining to him about the back wheel rim lock.
I shouted, ‘do you know about rim locks?’ He nodded and carried on with the tire irons. He didn't know, and soon I realized this repair was sizing up to be a wrestling match; Mr Malawi versus Rim Lock’ .
Over the noise and smoke, and in international sign language I motioned that he should undo the Rim Lock bolt, and then with more sign language approximating shoving an onion into a chicken carcass before you put it on the Weber, he should push the Rim Lock towards the tire tread.
As Mr Malawi was grunting and groaning with the tire irons, Russell back-up bakkie appeared, needing an angle grinder. He’d lost the key to the padlock chaining up his spare wheel, and the only solution was to cut the lock off. An extension lead was plugged into the generator, same lead draped over Mr Malawi, and Russell slithered under his bakkie to add to the bedlam and noise, with that aggressive angle grinder cutting away at the lock amidst a shower of sparks. (Did I tell you the spare wheel is about 1 meter away from the bakkie’s fuel tank?).
I watched Mr Malawi work with interest. He was quite happy working on an old wooden pallet, in an uncomfortable bending over position, rather than at a work table. Each time he put a tool down, he had to do so with great care, lest the tool fall though the gaps in the pallet. It was inevitable, as he stood up to scratch around for a tool just outside his reach, he bumped the tire irons and they fell through the pallet. This continual picking up of tools from underneath the pallet and bent over working seemed so illogical, and well stupid; why make it harder than it already is?
Mr Malawi showed his finesse and experience when it came to spooning the tire onto the rim. With the greatest and utmost care, like laying down a sleeping baby in a crib, Mr Malawi gently, gently worked the tire onto the rim without pinching the tube. Not even Russell tapping him on the shoulder, ‘have you got a jack?’ put Mr Malawi off his task.
With a satisfying ‘ schluurp’ the tire was on.
In the meantime another 3 adventure bikers had arrived at the workshop with a tire problem. Unfazed with the pressure mounting, Mr Malawi went about his work, with breath-taking efficiency; he knew exactly where everything was, and (bar the rim lock) had seen it all before.
In a 1980’s book by Robert Pruzzig entitled, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance the author describes this exact scenario. He says there are two types of mechanics; those like Mr Malawi who seem to operate well with tools and parts and stuff scattered about haphazardly, and the other type who is the exact opposite. This mechanic; Mr Order, can’t operate in chaos. Indeed these mechanics have their tools hanging up on a wall, each one silhouetted, everything neat and tidy.
This book is an inquiry into quality values. If, in the mechanic scenario, say both mechanics had to fix a flat, and if Mr Malawi fixed it properly his way in a chaotic workshop, and Mr Order fixed it properly in his way in his neat and tidy workshop, who is to say is the better mechanic? The book asks if there difference in quality between the two different mechanic styles?
The difference between the two styles is due to a personal data storing method. Mr Malawi stores data (in this case, where is my 13 spanner?) by associating its position relative to the generator, and/or some other object. His data storage is pattern orientated, among this landscape of seeming chaos, the position of everything is related, and he knows where everything is.
On the other hand, Mr Order has to have a specific place for a specific thing. His style is boxing and labelling all data, without which, he cannot operate.
Thanks to Mr Chaos Malawi, we all departed Stonhenge happy campers, and onwards to our next leg of the journey to Tanwka Padstal. Again, pictures will tell the story. The short one in words goes like this; opening and closing of gates, oaks almost seeing their gats on one particular sharp corner, some going to some dam, others not, others going this way, others that-a-way, another puncture, adventure bike on the trailer, fix puncture at burnt down padstal. All leave en mass; some going this-a-way to Cape Town, others that-a-way.
What a great trip! Well done to Brett and the back-up drivers. Truly amazing!
