DELORIS KOAN | Hold on to that cosmic communal dust

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A man in slip-slops, sackcloth pants and a Tee, drove Hetty over the hump to safety.

I picked up the GSA adventure beast from Ray the smart mechanic a few hours before all was repaired and spruced — then I went out and crashed the bike three, maybe four times.

We had braaied deep in Eastern Cape riverine splendour in the hills beyond Lavender Blue.

Motes in dappled sunlight, a snake seen in perfectly clear freshwater snorkelling — it came up for a quick moment for air and then stayed a foot under, hunting!

A hornbill sent out a sex partner honk for many minutes, the braai was so clever, when the heat tapped off, Alf simply used the next link in the chain to lower it.

I was amazed, I mean who does not fall under the spell of a fully functional, chain-and-metal braai contraption from Burmeister’s that does not ka-thunk! or clatter as you lower it.

In that beautiful, platform of grass, at a long table, under an umbrella, after a 3km river swim in the Gonubie River, we were finally at peace, a very simple, wild Eastern Cape peace.

But there was still that damn twinspoer to get up and over as we left this deep riverine Eden.

I knew it was going to be a problem when I arrived and realised that rain had made them deeper and steeper.

I literally careened down, waiting for the bike to fall as I bounced away out of control. But I got down.

So I left just before the last party in their SUV and Jimny. I geared down, looked up, took a line and gunned it.

I made it quite far, but then the runnel filled with round stone and some rubble said, no, that Karoo Street tyre is not quite doing it, and I came to a halt, rear wheel floundering deep in the hole.

I wangled it back a bit, rocking it out, trying not to let the beautiful beast pull me over, and gave it another run.

This time it was even more chaotic. The bike leapt from one spoer into the other, finally crashed on its side as I leapt off.

This was in full view of the now approaching friends. The two biker ballies came running up the hill and we got to it as bikers do — all grab the bike, sit on it, hold a rail, and heaved it up.

I was given my ride line and told, no slipping the clutch, just steady positive throttle.

So I did and as Hetty ramped from the spoer and flew over the grassy, bouldery middle-mannetjie, that throttle was so positive the bike screamed with futility — for there was no traction.

And of course, this time the crash was fairly spectacular. A few bushes were harmed, and as I jumped for dear life, the bike throttle was still fairly positive ... The backwheel kicked and threw the bike across the spoer where it came to rest facing into the hole! 

By this time my swimmer galz had arrived and they too wanted to lend a hand.

It was so steep, all I could do was ask them to go back a bit and watch us ous mess it up all by ourselves.

But these are Eastern Cape okes, and despite being in their late 60s and early 70s, they do not give up when it comes to getting a bike out of the dwang.

This is not unusual. Guys literally run to bikes when they are down and start working to get us all upright. It’s part of the whole jorl, man.

But my swim galz did not know this and their faces were a study of horror and shock.

I wanted to go over and tell them not to worry but by now I was so hot and exhausted I have to admit to putting hands on my knees, hanging my head and panting.

Hey, if I throw a stick for the crazy dog of the dorter, he will be foaming at the mouth and almost keeling over, while having the time of his life. 

Shane, Alf and I get back to it. They are on the other side, me alone this side.

Shane-o tells me he will control the front brake lever and so we he-e-eave and up she comes.

But, eh-he-he, my oke is in slip-slops and of course loses his footing in the marbles.

I see his hand shooting out to grab that brake lever — stop for a split second and then ... The entire bike edifice starts to lean, then slide back in neutral!

Hetty gathers speed and Shane and Alf, being experienced, realise it’s time to get out of the way!

I see Alf doing this amazing backwards scrabble and Shane is sort-of diving into the bush.

Once we see that there is no “entrapment” of feet under the bike, I start finding it funny and so do they. 

But the galz are by now severely traumatised and I doubt if they will ever go adventure biking with us ever, or possibly understand why we do it.

But no, we get Hetty reversed downhill to the next patch of easier ground.

I get astride. More instructions on the line, and off I go.

Now there is video of this: I made it within 2m of getting through and crashed. Again.

Now I am done, but Shane and Alf come up. We get the bike started and Shane literally walks it over the last big hump to freedom.

Then, this lakka local yokel, in his Bokomo flour sack broeks, slops and Tee says sweetly, ‘can I take it up’?

And off he went for the last of the 300m climb leaving me to trudge, quite happily in all my heavy gear.

What an afternoon of fun, though I doubt if the galz see it that way.

The day before, it was Mark “Mack” McArthur’s memorial paddle out at Yellows.

Killed by a runaway trailer on the N2, the Kwelerha local was a much-loved surfer, fisherman, dad, lover. Much, loved bru!

On a whim, I decide to head out since my China, the irrepressible Christian Nick Pike is doing the water ceremony.

It is set down for 11am and this time Deloris and I skid in just in time. I actually get right into the heart of an already full hilltop of cars, surfers, kids, dogs, just everyone — and this was still early.

Dave Ridge says howzit. I say I am going to swim out. No man, take this board. Out comes this sleek, long, thick, pintail sled. Whooo! Not had a board under my arm for some time let alone one so slick, and shiny. Okaay.

Off we go and then I realise, no wax. And out we go in this bumpy but very blue east wind day.

I am out there, slip-sliding and it’s such a party! One oke last got on a board 30 years ago and even Angus Kockott has paddled out with his shark bite injuries healed just enough for this first surf.

In they come, by the score. Eventually, there are more than 100 of us!

But no Nick.

And there we bobbed and baljaared. We waited for some time. I had to pretend I knew how to sit on a board. The wait was worth it!

When he came out, a wreath slung around his shoulders, with his hat on, astride his Bible-enscripted board, he was an inspiration, a tonic, a synecdoche of why we live here.

We held hands: “Mountain grip for you bru. It’s safer and we hardly know each other,” I choon my new best friend next to me. And so we splashed and cheered Mark on his way.

Turns out Nick was at the church service earlier at Crossways packing chairs and watching the crowds pour in.

The service ran late, and then Nick had to ride down to Yellows. But having no bike means you live imprisoned in the cage.

And by the time he got there, the entire road had become a parking lot. Insane.

And being Nick, he had to first talk to the grieving family on the rocks — that’s what he does and finally paddled out for the Aloha-inspired farewell.

What a solid bunch of people. Stayers, keepers, salty and earthy, all connecting.

“Kwelerha is like coming home!” “Hey we know each other bru!” I hear. And of course I had a chat with two family friends whom I grew up with, Jackie and Andrew, and then their kids came along.

A few beers were cracked, there was a pungent whiff of some good ganja, and the sun shone on this beautiful day of community, friendship and love.

We have to recognise these moments and celebrate the good things for, in a sea of troubles, your family, lovers, friends and associates come to matter most.

Friends are like comets flying in the sky in a shower of sparks. They are a comfort, a succour. I want to be like Mack’s people, put my back into it, make an effort to be the best friend ever.

Hold on to that cosmic communal dust, because without it we are adrift.