Hot Rockers Plastered - for all the wrong reasons - 24 Sep 2002
Knysna
Bad news
Join the Hot Rockers and Climb!
Springbok Rally
Back to Cape Town ñ this is getting to be a habit
We toddled down the road to Knysna, an OK kind of place in a touristy kind of way. I had by now learnt that municipal camp sites are cheaper than the average backpackers and we were wanting a quiet night. Monk the manager, bearing a striking resemblance to Monk in Doc Savage, was happy to accommodate us.
But said, ëI have to tell you that there are black people in the rooms next to youí
ëFine ñ no worriesí
ëWe find that a lot of South Africans complain, so we find itís easier to warn themí
Itís a sad world we live in.
Our neighbours were fine working citizens, trying to earn a crust for their families.
Martin had told us that the dirt road from Knysna up to Avontuur was a great road, so we enquired from Monk in the morning how to get on the road.
ëOh you canít go up there, itís dangerousí Thinking this was another of his racist comments and maybe this related to black residents rather than any logic, I was unconcerned. UntilÖ
ëThe road itís very bad, muddyÖrivers have washed sections away in the recent stormsí.
Now whose word do you take, Martin a local off-roader, or a racist bloke
Iím not sure how some ones racist tendencies either qualifies or negates their ability to make judgements about road conditions.
We have learnt that peopleís opinion of what is bad is hugely variant depending on the quality of roads someone is used to. It is best to get the judgement of someone who has travelled similar roads to us and then we can rank it against other roads we know e.g. better than the Moyale to Isiola road and worse than Namibian roads. Here we did not have that luxury.
We decided to give it a go. If it got too bad we can always turn back. The ëriversí mentioned by Monk were a little surface water, made by the tiniest streams, needless to say no road was washed away, and even the areas of dampness failed to produce convincing mud on the gravel structure of the road. The road went through some of the most gorgeous scenery, winding through the mountains up and down the passes. A lovely ride and if we need more advice on roads, I think Martin is our man.
I donít think we really said how beautiful South Africa is, but itís stunning. The roads are relatively traffic free and it has everything for the dedicated biker. A choice of good dirt road, to take you off the beaten track and excellent tarmac, sweeping the dramatic countryside for those on sporty numbers. My only regret, is because of bike problems and having to be back in Cape Town to organise shipping the bike, we have had to miss out the Drakensbergs and Lesotho, both of which I was looking forward to. So it looks like SA will have to be added to the growing list of countries to return to one day.
Off to Montagu to meet up with the Hot Rockers. We have mentioned the Hot Rockers many times but never explained who they are or what they are doing. Here goes. Hot Rockers - group of climbers travelling round the world in approx. our direction. The clientele changes for different legs of the trip, core group of Fi ñ the driver and mechanic, Dave lead organiser and climber, Wayne ñ other driver and climber, Johnny ñ climber and tiddlywinks champ, Mel ñ Ozzy climber and video maker for truck, Rex ñ the beast ñ self proclaimed sex expert and climber.
Many of the latest climbers will be leaving in Cape Town and we hoped to see them before they leave. We first heard of this bunch in Istanbul and from our first meeting in Wadi Rum, we have become great friends. The first leg of our journey through Europe and Syria was a little lonely and a strain on our undiluted relationship. Sporadically meeting up with, Stevie, Scully and the Hot Rockers has transformed this journey, from travelling and seeing the sites to a trip meeting good friends. Email is a great tool and means that wherever we are we can arrange to meet up with other people travelling in the country.
As we rode into the campsite there was the truck, but no-one was to be seen. T he truck was open, so where was everyone? Pat investigating discovered Rex loitering in the truck.
Rex ëThereís been an terrible accident!í. Now climbing being the sport it is - fatal accidents are always a possibility, if the gear fails or the rock gives way.
ëFiís had to go to the hospital in Port Elizabeth, to check on themí ëThe land rover burst a tyre, it lost control, rolled 3 times and they were thrown onto the road. Dave is badly injured, Kate canít move and the othersÖÖí
I felt physically sick. I hadnít expected it to be a car accident, somehow. It was unclear how badly Dave was hurt; reports were that he was coughing up blood and possibility of a punctured lung. In these circumstances I felt bad that we hadnít rung Fi, before we left as Port Elizabeth was closer than Montagu to Knynsa and we could have gone to help. Not that I know what practical help I could be, the bike was unable to take passengers, and we may have been more of a hindrance.
A few other Hot Rockers drifted back to the campsite, who had been out climbing locally and Wayne now the next in charge as acting organiser rang Fi for updates. Dave was the worst injured with a broken collar bone in 3 places, bad surface wounds, and cracked ribs; Kate had injured her back, but was now moving although she has also broken her wrist, Johnny, Mark and Ross, had survived with deep gashes and bruising. Considering the severity of the accident, all in all a lucky escape. I was enormously, relieved that it seems that all the injuries are repairable, that our friends a bashed about but not in danger. Dave was in for an operation that night and in theory Fi would bring them to Montagu tomorrow.
Join the Hot Rockers and Climb!
The next day, safe in the knowledge that hopefully our friends would return tomorrow, we headed up the local gorge to take a few piccies of the others climbing and relax in the Hot Springs at the end on the gorge. Watched Wayne, Aine (pronounced onya, Ben and Gary climb was fascinating. We were full of admiration for Aine who is now 8 months pregnant and still climbing, the only concession being that she tends to avoid the more strenuous routes and the overhangs. Wayne, the father, was clearly stressed each time she ascended and felt that the responsibility of belaying her was too much strain and had to be accompanied by a cigarette. Aine intends to have the baby in SA and continue on the trip and see how it goes. I wish her the best of luck.
Over the past year the Hot Rockers have been trying to persuade us to climb. I have made no progress and Pat has had the odd fling on the truckís climbing wall. Today Pat could not resist and was possibly a little shamed into having a go, by the fact that a lady 8 months pregnant was making it look easy. As Pat eased his way up a 13 route (scale I think goes from 10 for a scramble to 35 for hanging upside off overhangs), he looked quite competent, as Gary advised on positioning. Round the corner and another, set of routes a 15 this time. Patís progressing fast. Ben and Gary, decided to tackle a 22, with overhangy bits and everything. Determination shown by the pair of them was remarkable. Gary was first up, lacking the ape-index (arms reach) of Ben struggled to reach a hold and decided to Dyno ( a term meaning you let go of the rock and jump up to a hold, whilst attached by rope.
I am really rather flattered by the ìquite competentî reference and Hippy has thus displayed a meagre knowledge of the noble sport. Being still a little lardy from the overindulgences of reaching ëEuropeaní African and somewhat out of condition, I wheezed up a couple of very short and pretty easy routes. I got satisfaction from the fact that the exposure and height did not worry me and I reckon I might have a go at some more of this stuff.
The real beauty of this particular climbing area is that at the end of the valley is a little hot spa where one can loosen up aching muscles after a hard day on the rock. Needless to say, the Hot Rockers managed to turn the chilling into a human pyramid building and outrageous diving orgy. As usual, we sat back open mouthed and left them to it.
Luxury at last, an aging limousine from the hot springs back to the camp site and for some reason only known to them, Gary and Wayne decided that the best way to appreciate this vehicle was to travel in the boot. The boot was enormous, and it looked quite comfy as they snuggled up together like sweethearts. On the way back we were treated to they personal version of ëyou fill up my sensesí etc., evading from the boot into the cab. As the dulcet tones surrounded us I was taken with the idea that this could be a new job creation scheme. However as we entered the ford, the potential gurgle factor could effect reception.
We were overjoyed by the return of the wounded that evening. Renowned for his mad dress sense, Jonny arrived in his surgeons greens which the hospital had provided. Kate, too, was thus bedecked but sporting also a forearm plaster. Dave had a splendid sling but was obviously in a lot of pain following being opened up to have plates and screws put in his collar bone.
Poor old Dave was putting a brave face on it but was clearly in a lot of pain. It was a sign of his professionalism that even in his maimed state he trying to make efforts at cheering along the crew.
The other victims seemed pretty well unscathed other than for a few chafes here and there. Relief all round.
Weíd met quite a few bikers around the place who had all told us about the Springbok Bike Rally. On the basis that we were quite likely to win a prize as the longest travelled visitors and that we might a few interesting contacts we decided to go along and check it out.
Interesting contacts, eh? I should say so. Having pottered along from Montague by way of Ronnies Sex Shop (for the third time now) we arrived back at Outdshoorn once again. Itís interesting to note what a bunch of Jessies SA bikers seem to be. On the straights, I tend to slow down and give the old girl a rest and then when we get to the interesting twisty bits I wind her up a bit. Not so your South African. Theyíd all come hooning past us on the straights and then back right off on the corners.
Most of the bikes wellying past us were unloaded and each group was followed up by a transit van clearly carrying their gear. Somehow, I feel at this is wendying out a bit.
Now, Iíd love to point this out to the guys, but it transpired that the vast majority of them were tooled up. And weíre talking guns here! We donít like guns.
By a bizarre quirk of fate, the first guy we chatted with was a retired garage workshop manager who hailed from Preston, Lancs. Heíd actually been living in Africa since the mid seventies but had lost none of his accident. Heíd turned up on a rather lovely Moto Guzzi Monza ñ Simon Hall are you reading this? This manís racism was extreme to the point of being embarrassing. Did you know that the plastic bag problem in the world is the fault of the kafirs - who do not understand how to use them?
Next up was a man who was simply annoyingly drunk. He bemoaned his recent retrenchment and encouraged us to tell our friends to go on his 4x4 tours of South Africa. Whilst we obligingly collected his brochure, we will not be blowing his trumpet for him.
In the evening, the usual bike rally pursuits were entered into ñ Miss Springbok and menís and womenís beer drinking competitions. The candidates for Miss Springbok had clearly been told to maintain coverage of their ëdirty pillowsí as this is supposed to be the more family orientated rally. The audience, and particularly one very large coloured member, had other plans and bayed for the girls to remove their tops with such inspired encouragement as ìTitsî, ìWe want titsî screamed at increasing volume. The winner was chosen by audience response and I was quite astonished and pleased when the coyest of the participants won.
Hippy would not let me (he did not even ask) enter the beer drinking competition, which is a shame because their performance at this was similar to their corner rounding ability. A race to down a coke-sized can of lager ñ I ask you.
As inebriety spread, Hippy got waylaid by a Christian biker pervert who asked her whether she had had a vision, would get down on her knees for him and would she mind if he kissed her kissable lips.
He pointed out that I was clearly a believer in God, and it was our destiny to be together.
Regrettably, we had initially thought this guy was OK and the official photographer and could he possibly send copies of our picture to us for the website. This means that we had given him our website and email address. So it just remains to say if you are that man reading this, you really should know that you are a complete wanker.
The band was pretty good but the audience was a bit suspect. Groups of chaps standing around in overly shiny black leather gear from bike clubs called things such as ìThe Good Boysî. Hmmm. Maybe Andy Smith was right.
Clearly the number of badges you had sewn of gave proof of how hard a biker you were. The number of them proudly sporty emblems of Africa with swastikas on was more than worrying.
As the evening progressed, Hippy got accosted again ñ this time by a female Christian Biker. She told us all about how she had worked for three months in England as a nurse. Five minutes later it was America that she had worked in. The story kept changing and poor Hippy could not get away. Meanwhile, I was pounced on by a bloke who asked if we had any blades. I didnít know whether this was a threat, polite enquiry or offer of selling us some. I just looked at him like a moron until he walked away. Probably not the right thing to do!
We met a sane bloke, at last, in the morning who had biked down America and had a bike identical to ours with, strangely, exactly the same alternator problem. At least he relieved us in one respect ñ apparently in South Africa blades are colloquial for cigarette papers. As we passed the t-shirt stall and a customer was slipping out of a number that he had been trying on, his shirt pulled up and revealed a rather large hand gun. We moved on without catching his eye.
It was with mixed emotions that we left the rally in the morning to get back to Cape Town for the Hot Rock end of leg party. Hippy had had a sleepless night on account of our neighbours playing the car stereo until all hours. I had managed to stupor through it. Now we know why cars are banned from many rallies.
Been on this road loads of time and thereís not much to say but for the obligatory stop at Ronnies Sex Shop. This time we actually met the man himself. He seemed OK to me. Not in the least like a sex shop owner for, of course, this is not a sex shop. Important to note that Hippy did keep an eye on the clock as we went to make sure that the scarf was in place to ward off Arsenal bad news. We found out a couple of days later about how close weíd been to a draw. 93rd minute how cruel is that?
As we arrived there was a notice at reception to all Hot Rockers to be ready for a night on the town at 5.45 in fancy dress. We had returned to Cape Town for this leaving party, and now it was 5.42 and we had 3 minutes to get ready in fancy dress. Hence Pat in my only dress and I rustled up a toga affair out of 2 silk sleeping bag liners. Being quite an expert on the toga thing from years of crashing Freshersí parties at University, I disappointed everyone by arranging it in a seemingly precarious arrangement that was immobile all evening. The other Hot rockers in usual style, pulled out the stops, most of the men as women, and the ladies in various shiny wigs and Indian chiefís outfits. I was pleased to see that Garyís dad who is in his fifties and had just arrived in CT to see his son, had got into the swing of it sporting a lovely royal blue dress and a wig.
Thankfully, the restaurant had been warned and put out of annoyance zone in the balcony where peculiarly there was an equally bizarrely dressed bloke. 50+ in age with a rather dapper curly moustache and long grey hair in a ponytail, dyed blue, wearing a loud 70s pair of baggy shorts, which clashed perfectly with the flowery shirt and tie. As we started blowing up balloons and playing ëkeepy-upyí he saw a new use for these voluminous objects and promptly stuffed them down his shorts and proceeded to dance on the dance floor. The Hot Rockers had met their match at last.
A good night, was had by all.