A Cure for Clutch Ails You: Oubones to the Rescue

The Katse Lodge’s credit card machine wasn’t working and paying villagers for help had tapped nearly all of my money. I had just enough cash to pay for my room with breakfast before I’d need an ATM. From what I could see, I was the only person staying there. The parking lot was completely empty. I hauled my luggage and pannier into my room to take stock of it all and make sure the contents weren’t too damaged by all the damage. Each step hurt extra carrying the additional weight. I got undressed to take a shower in the communal bathroom in the dorms and marveled at the multicolored and lumpy tapestry that was my legs. After the shower, I ran to the ATM so I could afford to eat. When I returned, I limped back to the lounge, snapped some requisite photos of the beautiful scenery, and ordered lunch and a much-needed beer.

After filling my stomach, I grabbed my laptop and took advantage of the WiFi to get some work (read: this goddamn endless blog) done. Before I got too far in, a couple in motorcycle regalia walked in. I flagged them down and introduced myself. They were a pair of South African motorcyclists, and they were friendly. Perhaps, too friendly. The guy bought me beer after beer after beer. I told them about my ordeal, and he mentioned a big map of Lesotho at reception. We walked over so I could show where I crossed. On the map, the entire route was labeled “4×4 Track.” This explained some things to me.

We ended up chatting and getting more than a little drunk, eventually eating dinner together at a table. Afterwards I limped back to my room with my laptop, too drunk to get any more work done. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow despite my aching body.

Despite an early night, I slept until 8am. In the morning, I ate middling breakfast. Then I had some work to do on the bike, bending my seat mount and topbox latch back into something resembling working order, and other various things. One of the handles to my topbox mount fell off when I looked at it wrong. Ugh.

I was moving absurdly slowly. It was just after 10am when I had my things loaded again. When I checked out, the receptionist informed me they’d under-billed me for breakfast and I had to pay more. Total bullshit. I paid it anyways and hit the road. I once again crossed over the top of the dam, which meant another security checkpoint. The guard there had seen me the day before, and was crazy excited that I was an American. He kept telling me how happy he was to see me and how welcome he hoped I felt. It was adorable even as it was annoying he was keeping me. My clutch was dying and I was concerned about how long it may take me to get to the Wild Dogs National Bash in Ladybrand.

I made it back to the main highway and started my long slow path back to South Africa. The first stretch of the road hugged the reservoir, winding crazily along the receded edge. I passed the intake tower, rising lonely many meters above the water level. The wild curves continued for a very long time, as I the road worked its way up to what seemed like the most ridiculous mountain pass I’d ever witnessed, and then spent dozens of kilometers snaking down into an endless mountain plain. On every uphill, I fought my failing clutch to maximize my power while avoiding the worsening slipping.

This is not the view from the mountain pass, which was too crazy to stop and shoot photos of.

After the mountain pass, things leveled off substantially, much to my relief. I was heading to a border crossing in the Lesotho capital of Maseru, and every kilometer brought more and fancier development. The cars became fancier. More industry appeared. The mountainous craziness I’d seen initially had been replaced by a vast and substantial steppe. Things were a slightly brighter shade of green than the muted landscape of before. I passed through town after town, many clearly organized around a single industry; the most memorable was dotted with small-scale quarries, the entire town built out of and selling white stone blocks and bricks. Huge dusty white towers of the stuff lined the roads, with the more creative citizens displaying tiles, sheets, and handicrafts made out of the stuff.

I couldn’t go more than around 58mph in straightaways and, taking the playbook from the overloaded trucks, I struggled to get up even the slightest inclines. I played leapfrog with huge diesel-belching buses that would fly past then immediately pull over to pick people up, only to repeat the process until I pulled off to stretch. At one point, a fancy SUV with tinted windows and a police escort screamed past me at around 100mph (160kmh). I wondered if it was the King.

Eventually, the lumpy landscape of Maseru appeared on the horizon. Pulling into town, I ran into the first stoplight I’d seen in days. I marveled at traffic control, traffic, and pedestrians everywhere. For what it’s worthy, the pedestrians seemed to marvel back. My good friend Marc had once lived in Maseru, and I took a brief jaunt off of my journey to stop by his old elementary school. Getting there involved climbing up from the hustle and din of the city proper and up to a more affluent neighborhood. I parked in front and took some pictures. A security guard scoped me out, then chatted with me. I explained why I was there and he seemed excited. He told me it was a good school.

There once was this boy named Marc… and he went to the school in the sky.

From Maseru Preparatory School I headed to the border. Lesotho stamped me out in minutes. South Africa gave me shit because someone had messed up on one of my many entrances and they were confused about how many days I had left in the country (one can only spend 90 days in South Africa before they need to be stamped back into their own country, apparently), but they eventually got their shit together and let me in.

Things were calm on the South African side of the border. I was back on a beautiful highway that’s endemic of South Africa, down to the obsessive signage. I passed through a handful of kilometers of farmland and was eventually rolling into Ladybrand, home of the Wild Dogs National Bash. Google Maps routed me to the campground they were at down surface roads pocked with potholes as if they’d been recently bombed, down a dirt road, and finally into the gated driveway of a campground. As I entered, I saw adventure motorcycles scattered absolutely everywhere interspersed with tents and riders. It looked jumping. After checking in and being told to camp wherever I wanted, I rode into the din to waves from every stranger that set eyes on me. It seemed like a friendly crowd.

I parked my bike in an uninhabited spot in the middle of the campground and wandered around on foot looking for the folks I’d met in Himesville. It was a large area, and I was about to give up (there were just too many adventure bikes to be able to pick out the ones belonging to the folks I’d met) when I heard a voice call my name. My friends had found me! I asked if I could camp next to them and they waved me into a spot. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Camping with new friends
Surrounded by tons of large adventure bikes


I set up camp while chatting with some of the folks I’d come to see. While still setting up, a guy approached me and introduced himself. His name was Hennie, aka Oubones, and he was the first person to send me a message on the Wild Dogs forum offering his help and a place to stay if I happened to be in his area. I said ‘hi’ and told him about my clutch situation. Within five minutes, he’s phoned someone, and with one call, located a brand new clutch for my bike near him hometown. He told me I could come with him and his family and he’d give me a place to stay until I could get my bike fixed. I was in awe. Before I had too much time to revel in my luck, I was pulled to the bar, where I met dozens of ridiculously friendly and kind adventure bikers. My new friends shared their dinner with me, and I ended up having numerous drinks bought for me, many new friends made, and a sweet Wild Dogs hat from the previous bash gifted to me.

It was a dangerous place. When I’d hit my alcohol limit, the drunk folks remained persistent. Eventually, I ghosted on the crowd and headed to bed before they could peer pressure me into more. I awoke to Hennie giving me a wake-up call. Him, his wife, his son, and two female friends were heading to a town called Clarens, that I’d heard was a big motorcycle destination, for a night before heading to their hometown of Hammarsdale. I’d asked to tag along. We packed our things. Hennie had a diesel van with his BMW F650GS on a trailer on the back. His son was riding a Honda NC750X. Their friends had another car in tow.

After a couple bumps in the road out of the bash (Hennie’s van needed a jump, and a trailer with a BMW 1200GS that was being raffeled needed to be picked up and dragged out of the way of some obstacles), we hit the road. With my clutch, I struggled horribly to keep up. Within 30 minutes, a cover from Hennie’s BMW flew off and I stopped the van. It had already been ran over, but Hennie asked about how I was going with my clutch, and brought up that I may end up shedding clutch pieces into my oil and damaging my engine. He offered to exchange my bike for his on the trailer, and let me ride his BMW to Clarens. I was flabbergast by the trust and generosity, but I accepted. We swapped the bikes out on the side of the road.

My ride gets a ride, and my gas mileage improves dramatically

We caught up to Hennie’s son at a farm stall/restaurant along the way, and I rode the remainder of the way to Clarens with his son on the NC750X. The kid was a speed demon, and it was all I could do on the F650GS to keep up with him. It was a scenic, if windy, path, with buttes and mountains lining the largely green path. Clarens itself was a super cute touristy town arranged around a large square central park and nestled serenely in the mountains. We took a brief trip around it before heading to an adorable backpackers where we could set up our tents to camp. After we got settled, Hennie and his son ferried the rest of us to town (picking me up and riding me there on his son’s motorcycle) where we hung out, walked around, and drank fancy craft beer. The town was totally jam-packed with South Africans who head there for the weekend, many of them on motorcycles, including many of the same folks who’d been at the Wild Dogs bash. After a few hours of that, we headed back to the backpackers where Hennie’s son (also Hennie, and AKA Bones) braaied up a feast. We ate, drank, and chatted. I also met some pretty cool folks also staying at the same Backpacker’s who were there for a Lada (a cheap Soviet-era 4×4 car) meetup.

The greeters at the backpackers

It rained in the night. and things were pretty soggy the next morning. While we let things dry, Hennie, his wife Rodene, and I went for a hike along a trail behind the property while things dried in the sun. There were remnants of old stone fence posts, a pump house, and eventually a great view of a levy and water-carved landscape.

The old Levi/Hennie-Selfie

As we got back, it started to rain again, and there was a mad dash to get all the gear back under cover and out of the rain. The rain let up, but the forecast called for loads more as well as plenty of rain later that day, so the family decided we’d load all three bikes up, two on the trailer, and Hennie’s in the back of the van. It took awhile and some physical Tetris to get everything loaded, but we pulled it off.

Do you see the motorcycle in this van?

After we loaded up, me in the van, we hit the road. The wind was totally insane; I was super happy to not be on the bike. Hennie had plans to show me some nice scenery. We passed through the appropriately named Golden Gate Highlands National Park, which wraps a beautiful mountain pass. Hennie took us venturing onto a scenic side-route along a small paved road up the side of a mountain I’d have never found on my own. Multicolored painted cliffs dotted the landscape, with occasional large mammals grazing away. Lightly colored vegetation that has seemed like a staple through water-parched southern Africa covered everything not devoid of dirt.


Descending out of Golden Gate Highlands we passed through huge swaths of burned charred grasslands. In some places, a dramatic waving line between green grass and black char was visible. Wisps of smoke and ash still rose through the air, and the smell was one fresh wildfire. The landscape flattened out, but the specters of the Drakensberg mountains haunted the horizon. For my benefit, Hennie led us out of our way to Royal Natal National Park, where a famous land formation known as “The Amphitheater” is located. It was hazy and sprinkling rain, so while the photos didn’t pan out perfectly, I got a good feel for the impressive mountain range.

I wish we’d had time to stop at this Cannibals restaurant for a bite to eat…

A final rainbow sent us out of this last national park. After dinner, the weather deteriorated with the setting sun. The last couple hours were wet, windy, and miserable. Around 9 o’clock, we rolled through a gate on a hilly country road in Hammarsdale and into the family home. With many hands, we made quick work of unloading the motorcycles and all the gear from the van. Hennie Jr. once again cooked us a great meal on a BBQ, and I was set up in a central room in the house.

I was the late riser in the family waking up at 7:30am. Hennie’s brother was coming in later and escorting me to the motorcycle shop, so I went to work getting some work trying to repair my bike before he showed up. We were headed to the workshop of Derek “Mad Murdoch” Graham, a former motocross star who was injured racing, and subsequently crippled after a botched surgery. Of course, he was also a friend of Hennie and his brother. When I arrived, Derek directed one of the mechanics along a vast hall of parts, plastic pieces and mufflers hanging from the ceilings, motorcycles in various states of assembly arranged neatly in lines. He pointed out a box labeled DRZ400. Inside were wiring harnesses, various doodads, and a pile of individually wrapped clutch parts.

“Mad Murdoch”s many awards
And a brand new clutch!

The mechanic was a soft spoken chap who showed me photos of the two DRZ’s he’s had in the past, and he made quick effective work of the task. I once again needed to address a failed weld on my rear rack, which was becoming something of a recurring story, so after the clutch I pulled the top case off and he went off to weld it back together for me. In the meantime, I was also able to source a half-decent replacement mirror for mine that was smashed in the night in Lesotho.

Hennie’s brother meanwhile was working in a crazy workshop on diesel fuel pumps using large ancient Bosch machinery. He walked me through a bit of how it works over a beer, and then we went to lunch down the street. Aside from making a pretty decent pizza, the restaurant was a sort of half-way house for troubled folks, like Delancy Street in SF. Our waiter told me about how he’d walked all the way around the continent of Africa. When I asked him about some troubled borders, he responded with stories of being smuggled between Morocco and Algeria, and advised me that I needed to stop thinking “like an American” to get through them. It actually seemed like pretty sound advice.

Fun with diesel fuel pumps!

When my bike was back together and I’d paid (Mad Murdoch was nice enough to give me a discount on parts, but clutch plates in SA don’t come cheap!) I headed back to La Casa de Hennie. I spent the next two hours with a hammer, a wooden plank, some vice grips, and my panniers, smashing and bashing away until they were made out of something even remotely resembling straight lines. When I placed them back on my bike and they *fit*, I was overjoyed!

Hennie was the last of the family back from work, and we’d decided to go out to dinner. The poor guy was out of work so late that the first couple spots we tried weren’t serving dinner. Eventually, we ended up at an Italian Mafia-themed restaurant. I drove everyone crazy by managing to buy dinner and only order a salad. Mission accomplished!

The word on the street was South Africa was expecting massive protests the next day organized by South Africa’s largest labor union (Cosatu) and the South African Communist Party, which had threatened to “shut down the country.” After talking to the family about what this meant (supposedly roadblocks and potentially tired full of petrol burning in the streets), I decided it was probably best to stick around another day and avoid trying to make it through Durban during all this. I was also sold by the prospect of tasty coffee, working WiFi, and some scenic rides if I swung by Hennie Jr.’s work. I settled on a day of taking it easy.

In the morning, I lazily prepped and hopped on the bike. It was a leisurely and scenic ride through sugar cane fields and past logging trucks out to the small one-horse town where Hennie Jr. managed the one store in town. Once there, I was setup in the break room with power, internet, pod-cappuccinos, and even beef with gravy on rice. I sat around and worked for awhile, meeting the mayor, some cops, and various other folks who cycled through. Hennie Jr. then gave me advice on a ride that took me through parts of the Valley of a Thousand Hills, through more fields and forests, small towns, and curvy hilly dirt roads. Eventually I circled back before more rain struck.

That night, the family went all out to get me back for the dinner (and because they’re a crazy kind and generous bunch) cooking up a huge steak meal in the style of Spur (an American-themed steakhouse chain popular in South Africa that mystifyingly uses a feathered headdress-wearing Native American as its mascot). The steaks were massive and delicious. The forecast called for another day of rain and misery the following day, and they once again tried to convince me to stick around another night, but the time had come. It was time to move on. Next stop: Durban!

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