ExpAfrica: Bloed en OMO report

Bloed en OMO were never in this race to win. But they were there to finish – and this they did. With style. The team created their own route – mostly from transition to transition – to keep up with the field. This is the story of their adventure.

Race report:  Expedition Africa, May 2014

Location: Port Edward, RSA

Team: Bloed en OMO

Members:

Sue Haarkappie Peterkin

Nico Oom Sputnik Labuschagne

Jan Biltong Bezuidenhout

Abel Agter os van der Merwe

Let’s start on a positive note:

–          As we have come to expect from Stephan and Heidi, the organisation was impeccable and the route was well thought out. Every Leg was a challenge and an event on its own.

(The logistics of handling 160 bikes, 80 kajaks, 80 boxes and 80 sets of paddling equipment  across very difficult roads and to suit different team progress rates must have been quite something. In fact I am amazed, when I compare this event with other major events such as IronMan, Comrades etc, how much more they accomplish with a fraction of the budget and manpower. )

• The event venue was outstanding.
• The helpers were always ready with a smile.
• We saw some really amazing scenery along the coast and deep inland.
• The weather was close to perfect. Cool and zero rain.
• The local people were friendly and keen to assist despite a serious language barrier.
• We saw no litter left by other teams, although I must admit, we did not necessarily follow their footprints. It could also be due to the clean-up efforts of James Stewart.
• I had excellent team mates. Their attitude was always positive and they were keen to recognise the pleasure and privilege of the moment.  And the banter and supply of anecdotes was unrelenting.
• We enjoyed every step of the journey and have come away with plenty of memories.
• Bloed en OMO reached their goal which was to complete the event –  albeit with many CPs missed – as a full team and with four hours to spare.
• We had an opportunity to race with some truly powerful athletes – although it was very much a case of the local Fish & Chips touch rugby team taking part in the Super 14.
• And, above all, we had the honour of being amongst amateur teams that showed tremendous grit and determination to get through some pretty tough stuff. I often wondered how the all girl team coped with the stress when things didn’t work out or, especially, when carrying the kayaks for a kilometre over difficult terrain. On the other hand, B&Os girl was the toughest in team. Why are South African women always tougher then the men?

I am reminded of the advice given to a friend of mine by her now long dead father: when you pick up a scrap the softest part of you body must be your teeth.

Blood en OMO salutes you all.

Before proceeding with the race report, I wish to point out that B&O  did not intend to short course as much as we did. I messed up my feet early in Leg 4 hike by swapping, in an act of gross stupidity, my water logged hiking boots with the takkies intended for the canoe leg. In consequence I was ready to bail at CP10.  The team kept me going to their detriment as the only way to keep up with the race was to short course early and often.

I like to tell myself that they stood by me because they enjoyed my company but in reality it was probably because they were too lazy to navigate.

Pre-race:

The day before the race was, as usual, spent packing and unpacking in a state of anticipation and excitement.

The community project involving taking some local kids for a paddle through the surf deserves mention.

When I tried to select a Born Free from the group they recoiled muttering “de la Rey, de la Rey” so Biltong was sent in with a kindly smile. He came back with Rose who could not speak  (or perhaps remember) a word of English.

The sea paddle was pandemonium.

Our Rose was frightened out of her wits. When the kayak flipped she wrapped her arms and legs around Biltong’s head like an octopus, almost drowning him before he could pry her loose. He says he could feel her heart was fluttering like a mouse’s.

We left the beach thinking that tomorrow’s earlier launch would be easier.

Leg 1: 11 km Sea Kayak.

We arrive at the beach for the 7 am start to find that the waves are monstrous and there’s a serious beach break.

Seconds into the race there is absolute mayhem. 80 yellow and red kayaks are being tossed like matches in a maelstrom.  Where ever you look swimmers are clutching paddles and ducking boats hurtling, often airborne, back to the beach.

As Sputnik and I repeatedly fail to get past the first set of breakers we caught  a glimpse of Biltong and Haarkappie heading straight to sea like pros, paddles scooping air as they crested wave after wave.  My proudest moment. Eventually we get through ourselves, but only after being supremely motivated by drifting ever closer to the rocks.

Afterwards we hear that the sea had rolled them all the way back to the beach and they were in fact behind us.

Leg 2 : 12 km Trek

A quick 12 km hike?  5 hours, four river crossings and some magnificent views later, we arrive back at our kayaks sodden.

Leg 3:  5 km River Kayak

Tra-la-la, except that our Hiawatha and Minnehaha could, all of a sudden, not paddle  in a straight line.

Leg 4:  80 km Trek  

It is almost dark when we leave T2 for this massive hike.

While we wait 3 hours for our turn at the 90m (?)  abseil we make some hot soup on our gas burner. When my turn comes I realise why things went so slowly – and I am grateful to be almost last down the rope as I would have worried all night about those coming after me. It is a miracle that everybody got down without a serious snag.

[I elaborate my experience as I am sure many of you will recognize it.]

Firstly, by this time the rope is fluffy from use and also damp so the prussic (which should rather have been an auto block and/or made of 8 mm – as recommended by Stephan – and not 6 mm rope as recommended by the shop) grabs at the slightest provocation. At first it works to hang onto the prussic with both hands (bad idea) so that it can move. Eventually that is not enough and it digs in solidly. Even yanking it does not help. Several times the only option is to find a ledge and with great effort feed rope back into the figure 8 until it is slack enough for the prussic to be worked loose.  Several  people I spoke to were sorely tempted, like myself, to unclip the prussic completely (very bad idea).

Secondly, there were trees and other obstacles on the way down that caught the rope. I once had to bounce myself sideways by at least 10 meters so that I could follow the rope down. Other times I had to un-entangle the rope by breaking off branches. I cannot imagine the chaos if one goes below such an obstruction and the “loose” end of the rope ends up looped above you.

All the above took place somewhere way above the ground. Luckily it was pitch dark and there was no time for fear.

All of us landed soaked in sweat from the effort.

The abseil is followed by a struggle to get back to the coast. The paths are confusing and the coastal vegetation dense and unforgiving. At 1 am we decide to take a break till dawn on a bluff.  We lay down under the stars and chatted.  To my joy I discover that there are no serious snorers in the team.  Except possibly myself.

The only problem was some mosquitoes that must have been massive as they sucked blood right through a buff and sounded like more like Harley Davidsons than a 49cc buzz bike.

Next morning there is more condensation (from our wet clothes) underneath the cover sheet than on top. Yes we travelled First Class with a ground sheet and a cover sheet.

Early morning we find, as they say in traditional English ballads “a handy boatman” who ferries us over the river for a fee. I hope this admission does not disqualify B&O.

Then the trouble starts. After a few hours of hiking along the beach  my feet are burning and the walk turns into a limp then a hobble.

Inspection at CP10, the “lodge”, reveals a massive blood blister under my left forefoot. That ugly word “bail” comes to mind.

In the absence of private vehicles, let alone taxis, our strategy becomes that the other 3 will continue with the race on their own after T3.  To save time we decide to skip CPs 11 and 12 and take the shortest possible route to T3 via the Mkambati reserve coastline.

On the way we chat to a game ranger who tells us that they were awoken by strange headlights a few evenings back and that they had scrambled to unlock their gun safes. They were relieved to find ARs.

Along the Mkabati coast we come across a mini-canyon created by a stream. In it are  a series of ledges and  a  waterfall into a pool which in turn spills over into the sea. On one of the ledges a couple of tourists are blissfully kafoefling – luckily still fully clothed . Before we could retreat one picked up a cell phone and took a selfie.  One can only imagine their surprise when they review their holiday pictures and see four multi-coloured lemurs with cycle helmets and headlights peering over the canyon’s rim into the lens.

Our morale is at its lowest point of the race when we wade across the Msikaba river at dusk. We spend another night under the stars after a hot meal of soup, freeze dried whatever and coffee.

It is still dark when Sputnik gets up and announces he is feeling stronger and stronger and this is “lekker’.  This transforms the team mood- except that the inside of my sleeping bag is wet. Very wet. Could this be why Sputnik got up so quickly? It surely could not be from Haarkappie on my other side? Or was this my first “senior” moment? Then I discover that bladder pipe in my backpack, that I have been clutching all night, has cracked.

I drape the wet sleeping bag over my shoulders and we hit the road inland in high spirits albeit at snail’s pace.

Leg 5: 10 km Canyoning

We travel along the southern edge of the canyon only visiting one CP on account of my foot.

My foot has not deteriorated further and I see plenty others with worse blisters at T3. I decide its time to stop being such a sissie and there’s no reason why I can’t at least do the upcoming cycle and paddling legs.

In the meantime Biltong books us into the Mbotyi lodge.  We feast on curry chicken and rice and Haarkappie is rewarded with sleep in white sheets as promised.

Leg 6:  120 km Cycle (we did less then 100 km)

This leg was to be characterised by major climbs (3500 m cumulative). And a mother of all downhills to the paddling transition at T4. Also by my discovery that I had packed running and not cycling shorts.

After a steep, 8 km uphill out of Mbotyi we reach the tea plantations. On the way to CP 17 Sputnik and I (and plenty of others we hear later) discover that all is not well and the curry chicken is wreaking Kaizer Matanzima’s revenge.  We leave some tea bushes in our wake that will stand head and shoulders above the rest next season.

Luckily the pestilence skips Haarkappie who is able to maintain her decorum throughout.

Biltong on the other hand finds it amusing and it is only justice that he too is eventually smitten. In fact, his lasts longer. (On the way home after the ER we stop at a pharmacy in Shelley Beach to buy more immodium. The pharmacist wastes time entering Biltong’s  family history on the computer until Biltong asks  him to hurry up otherwise he must change his order to adult nappies. )

Through the day I am surprised to discover several local words that are the same as in Shona or Ch’njanja that I could speak before learning English more than half a century ago.

Examples being “madala” (old man), “pêlêlê” (finished, worn out), “manji” (now), “umlungu” (white man – actually refers, I am told, to the white sea scum on the beach)  “hamba” (go) and “madala hamba shattien” (which you can work out for yourself).  But the words I really lacked were those for road, path etc.

With great skill, a.k.a. luck, we manage to navigate through haphazard settlements using footpaths and jeep tracks. Earlier than expected we come across a paved road indicating that Lusikisiki must be close. I decide to confirm the direction with a local who points in the exact opposite direction. I argue, pointing out that once we hit the main tar road Lusikisiki could only be to the right not left. But you are standing on a “slab” he says. Touché.

He is indeed correct. This is a concrete road. We take his advice and minutes later our tyres are singing to Lusikisiki, and meal of take away chicken and chips on the floor of the Hungry Lion – the pavement outside being too crowded.  On the way out of town Biltong and Sputnik negotiate use of the local Builders Supply toilet whilst I manage to hold out until we see a latrine on the way to CP 19.

This is also when we decide to take a quick nap on the roadside to sleep off the meal. The dust from passing cars sifts softly down over us until our reverie is broken when Sputnik jumps up yelling. A goat has tried to give him the kiss of death or nibble his moustache.

We head for the hills (mountains) for some serious uphill riding and walking. Haarkappie, a powerful roadie, is in her element and we struggle to keep up.

Hours later we hit the big descent and Haarkappie, a MTB novice, discovers one of the joys of MTB. I, in the meanwhile I obsess that I could have made a navigation error. There is zero possibility of riding back up this road.

Near the bottom, we dismount to walk up a short, steep hill and my heart almost goes “hamba shattien” when a young schoolgirl says “excuse me sir, your fellows went in the opposite direction” (her words, tru’s bob). With trembling hands I take out the map and give the name of Cqubeni, the settlement near T4 and she agrees we’re OK.

We sleep over at T4 after another hot meal. Haarkappie trades our coffee for some other team’s Swiss chocolate which she shares with us. We sleep right through the arrival and departure of several other teams.

Leg 7:  20 km River Kajak

The kilo or so portage down to the river along an even steep rutted path is tough, especially on  Sputnik and Biltong who do extra duty.

The paddling itself goes smoothly. Biltong and Sputnik are now partners. Their crooked tendencies cancel and they travel more or less in a straight line. Haarkappie and I cruise effortlessly – except for the odd sand bank – and complete the stretch in 3 hours.

Leg 8:  40 km Trek (30 + km for B&O)

With Stephan’s positive words about the “easy the 20 km short course following the Drifters backpacker route up the coast” ringing in my ears I decide not to bail just yet.

In retrospect, I have to say that Stephan definitely has a “glass half full” personality. How Heidi ever survived racing with him I fail to comprehend.

Anyway, at midday we set out from T5, one of the most beautiful spots on this planet. The sun is shining and the views along the coastal road are stunning, especially from Poenskop.

Thinking we would, at worst, be at T6  by dusk for a fat meal and a good nights sleep before the final long cycle leg, we set off talking so much that, like Brad and Janet in the “ Rocky Horror Picture Show”, we fail to see the warning signs.

The “coastal highway” eventually descends to the shoreline at CP23. After that a couple of estuaries are crossed and a series of rocky promontories are skirted without too much trouble.

Late afternoon, around high tide, we strike the Mntafufu river estuary and like Janet and Brad we fail to notice that the background music has become ominous.

We watch a team ahead of us wade across up their armpits in the water. One of them miss times the waves that are rolling in and is washed, desperately clinging to his backpack, into the lagoon and then back out again before he finds his feet. Bloed en OMO somehow manage to cross without incident.

It is dark when we get to the rocky cliffs preceding Black Sands beach and neither we nor another team can find a path along the shoreline or around the bluff which the map says is 100 + meters high.

Then two lean fishermen emerge out the darkness and tell us to follow them around the cliffs. Like klipspringers we leap from boulder to boulder, squeeze along narrow ledges, sometimes descending down to the swirling water level when the waves pull back, and other times scramble up the rocks to avoid incoming waves. Sore feet are forgotten.

The going gets worse and worse and I think to myself “What the @$% are you thinking endangering your life and those of your friends doing something you would normally not even consider in daylight even without a backpack? Can finishing an AR be so important”.

Then I am caught up to my waist by a wave with my legs spread apart, feet unstable on two pointed rocks. I just hope that this does not end with my team mates recklessly risking their own lives trying to rescue me. By some miracle I am still standing when the surf pulls back.

At the end of Black Sands we spend some time searching for the path that, according to the map goes inland all the way to Manteku,. Nothing. So we take the very clear and obvious backpacker path just behind the rocky outcrop that stretches ahead for more than a kilo. Once we are deeply committed the path keeps on disappearing. We repeatedly backtrack to pick it up again. Eventually it becomes very faint and only our imagination keeps it alive.

What seems like hours later, somewhere near where the Meliskerk wreck lies, we are trapped. The rocks are near vertical. By leaning against the rocks and gripping cracks and small ledges I am able to reconnoitre another 30m. Then, there is just apparently impassable black rock and equally black sea ahead. I inch back, heart thumping.

We retreat 100 m to a more open patch in a state of motherless depression. Behind us is a very steep hill of some 80m in height.  Either we go back all the way to Black Sands and launch an expedition deeper inland or we climb this hill and hope we can get down the other side.

After a while I remembered Churchill’s words: “Only two things are impossible. To climb a wall leaning towards you and to kiss a girl leaning away from you”. This little obstacle was leaning away from us and was too ugly to be a girl.

So we climb up the hill, first finding hand and footholds on smooth rock and, when we reach soil and vegetation, sticking to the parts with the most bushes to serve as grip and a safety net. Half an hour of bush breaking and we summit. Luckily its easy going down to a stream that leads to the next lagoon.

This time we are able to find, with the assistance of some entrepreneurial locals, the inland path to Manteku. They also inform us the Mzintlava river is “strong”. When we get there its opposite bank cannot be seen with our headlamps but we know it’s there because there are no stars in the blackness ahead.

We find ourselves another “handy boatman” at the nearby Drifters camp, who after much negotiation, will take us over one at a time in an Indian canoe. The main obstacle being language as the man’s English is barely better than my Xhosa.  The final bit of agreement being over when we actually want this service – his understanding being tomorrow until the crazy umlungu digs the word “manji” (now) out of the recesses of his memory.

Sputnik goes first, the boatman clenching a cell phone between his lips to light the way.  He makes a couple of weird turns and a minute later he bangs into the bank – 30 m upstream from us. Biltong and  Haarkappie speculate whether he thinks we are tourists that actually just want a quick boat trip for fun.  However, he eventually gets Sputnik across after some more erratic twists and turns.  Then it’s my turn and he becomes even more erratic – much like a moth around a candle he darts this way then that.  We have no explanation for this behaviour other than maybe it was his first ever paddle. Anyway, we were not worried as it was quite clear that the water was anyway only knee deep all the way.

We eventually get to Mbotyi after 3 am – 15 hours after starting the leg.  Later we hear that another team was stuck for 3 days on this Leg.  I am really curious to know if this is true.

Leg 9: 230 km Cycle (or around 175 km in our case)

12 km out, on the long uphill from Mbotyi to the tea plantations, my cyclometer falls off. By the time I discover this and go back, the only car we saw that morning had driven over it.

This was also the point at which it was brought home to me that Haarkappie did not bring hers (on account of it having a GPS function), Sputnik did not have his (he remembers holding it in his hand at the last transition) and that Biltong’s  was semi-operational and held together with duct tape.

This was more a less a disaster since accurate distance measurement is an essential part of navigating the bike legs.

We nevertheless find CP26, at the start of the steep descent into the Msikaba river gorge, without too much difficulty.  The path down to the river crossing is steep and deeply rutted and it’s a slow walk. We marvel at the cliffs knowing that there is a price to pay on the way up and out.

Coming out of the valley we stumble into a myriad of paths, most of which showed bike tracks (it only takes one team to fill a track with tyre marks) and none of which qualified to be indicated as a dotted line on the map.

(One of the biggest fears of a navigator is to take the team along rough paths or through the bush when there’s a “highway” a mere 50,m to the left or right.)

So we navigate by instinct and eventually find the main jeep track that matures into a gravel road that undulates over several hills before transforming, at dusk, into a tar road just before Sitakwini, the largest (only) real settlement on this Leg.

During this stage of the race we come across several teams that are apparently in a bad state. Napoleon’s retreat from Russia comes to mind.

By now we had managed to cover about 50 km and were on top of a wind swept plateau. We stop at a spaza shop for cokes where the proprietor, Solomon, offers to rent us a rondavel for the night. We take it as the wind is cold and we are not sure of how much further we have to go before we reach an  unsettled area were we can safely take a break.

Hours before dawn we set off for the final day’s journey. Soon after we pass a team huddled  by the roadside (if we had known they were so close we would have shared the rondavel). At the crest of the hill we realise that Biltong is no longer with us so we backtrack all the way down to discover that his saddle has broken off on the only speed bump in the Transkei. His clothes are in tatters. It was only back at Port Edward, when he has washed the dust off, that the rest of us realised how badly he had fallen. His legs, back and arm are badly bruised.

Anyway, there we were with a broken bike some 120 or more km from home and many more hills to climb. Game over.

Then we concocted a repair scheme using a plastic tyre lever as support plate. Except that the ends stuck out and had to be sawed off. Believe it or not, for six years I have been travelling with a saw in my rucksack – but I had stood with it in my hand at the T6 and thrown it into the Box A!

Suddenly a man in a greatcoat looking like a black Stalin appears out the dark and offers us his claw hammer. (?????)   Were I thirty or forty years younger and in my tempestuous youth I would probably have used it on the bike. I tell myself that the tyre level would anyway have snapped at the first bump.

Whilst Stalin goes off on an unsuccessful mission to look for a saw we came up with a new and better plan: we dismantle the mounting of Biltong’s saddle bag and use that as saddle bracket. AND, this is the truly amazing part, we needed the hammer to force two gas bottles between the saddle and “bracket” for extra support.

The rest of the day to the finish was mundane – just your usual MTB type race. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The only remaining incident, other than discovering that Sputnik’s foot was now actually in worse shape than mine, was when, with 65 odd kms to go, we were sitting at the roadside sharing our last can of sardines when two young boys approach us with all sorts of questions.

Tired and moedeloos,Sputnik says to them: “ Should you not be in school?.  “Why?” says the wiseguy one. “Because you must go to school” says Sputnik. “But its Saturday” he replies.

Which succinctly reminded us that it was time to finish Expedition Africa.

It was interesting to note that at the Prize Giving Dinner hardly anyone chose chicken.

Lastly I must salute my team mates:

For some 230 hours, from the time we left home and returned again we were almost continuously in each other’s company. Yet there was never any sign of irritation or complaints even when navigational errors were made or infirmity or uncertainty surfaced.

Haarkappie, my assessment of your physical abilities was 100% correct. In fact you delivered more than was expected of you, especially on the mental and social interactions of the team.

Oom Sputnik you doubted your inclusion in Bloed en OMO and was scared you would let us down. On the contrary you played your part in our success and, as anticipated, sacrificed your all to the team with a smile and a laugh.

Biltong, my trusted friend, what can I say. Once again, you have, with your positive attitude and ever cheerful nature, helped keep the game a pleasure.

As for Agter os, the team weak link, to you I say you were lucky to have such loyal friends.

My wife reminds me of what my grandson wrote at school some time ago when they were asked to complete sentences like, for example “ the grass is _ _ _  “ (typical answer “the grass is green”) etc.

When he came to one that said “My oupa _ _ _ _ _ “ he answered “My oupa hardloop in die aand rond”.  (My grandfather runs around at night).

One can only wonder what conclusions the teacher came to.