In celebration of the cook

How a chef saved us from grief

We had been preparing for a motorbike ride through the Indian Himalayas and thought a trip through Lesotho would make a great trial run for testing our gear at Altitude, in winter. We met in the southern Drakensberg and set up camp late Friday night. Only as we were making final preparations for our ride up Sani Pass did it dawn upon Carl that we needed to cross a National border. Needless to say, he had forgotten to pack his passport. The look on his face took me right back to school and that empty, hollow stomach feeling you get right before you are frog-marched off to the headmasters office.

We needed a “plan B” so we headed to the bar for some emergency planning.  After a few rounds the chef poked his head round the corner to see what the ruckus was about. When he heard Carl’s story he said “ Just take my passport and get it back to me when you’re done.”

Now, I could tell the cook took his profession seriously by the size of his belly. I stole a quick glance at Carl, who, in his early 30’s was at his physical peak and I quietly wondered if the ruse would work or if he would spend the weekend as a guest of the Basutho people in a holding cell.

I thought of what Yvon Chouinard, the great climber and founder of Patagonia, once said; “ Its not an adventure until something goes wrong.”

We awoke early to find the mountains covered in snow. Having arrived late at night we had no idea of the stunning winter wonderland surrounding us.

We packed up camp and headed towards Sani Pass to start our adventure not quite realizing it had already begun the night before.

We criss-crossed the Drakensberg going over some exciting terrain. The morning light dancing off the autumn colouring of the leaves.

Up mountain passes on gravel trails and down the other side again. On and on we went, the rural countryside seemingly so tranquil. We passed hamlets of mud huts and the traditional Zulu beehive huts. Women carrying water and doing their washing in the rivers we crossed. Now and again we would pass a dairy farm or horse stud with manicured lawns and picket fences, a stark contrast to the rest of the overgrazed countryside. My BMW loved the windy roads and the heated handgrips felt luxurious on the cold morning.

After a hard day’s ride traversing mountains we arrived at Himeville. We stopped for a short break to fill up and down a few cool drinks, discussing strategy once more for the border run into Lesotho. We were caked in dust. What now lay in front of us was the most challenging and exciting part of our journey. (Not only for Carl and his borrowed pass, but in terms of riding terrain.) I followed the others with increasing trepidation.

I had waited weeks for this very moment, the excitement gradually mounting up inside me. Why then was I feeling so uneasy to the point of nauseous? Was it for Carl? I tried to shrug it off and promised myself to be extra careful. We were all tired but now had to race over the most difficult and tricky part of the route, as the border post would close at 16h00.

Being blokes, our competitive spirit quickly took over and we started racing each other up the pass. The BMW’s were no match on the dirt for the far superior KTM’s and those on Beemer’s started to lag behind.

Sani Pass is an engineering marvel. It is an impossibly steep mountain pass that was said to be impossible to build and connects Kwa-Zulu Natal to high Altitudes of Lesotho.

Sani Pass photo by Mark Potterton

I was standing up on my pegs negotiating a particularly tricky part of the pass when a 4x4 came rushing down the pass towards me. Now etiquette dictates that those traveling up the pass have right of way but here was this idiot heading directly on a collision course towards me. I was forced off my line and hit a couple of larger boulders, throwing me backwards and opening up my throttle as I fell back, the bike prancing beneath me. I tried to wrench it back under control but the speed and the terrain were against me. Everything happened very quickly. By this stage I knew that we were going to fall down the gorge. Still desperately trying to gain control of the bike, my only option now was to throw myself off and watch the bike plunge hundreds of feet to the bottom of the valley. I jumped off pushing the bike away from me as I did so. I rolled to a stop; grateful for the money I had spent on protective clothing. I slowly got up on shaky legs, no sign of the other vehicle, and reluctantly peered over the ledge. There, just in front of me, held in place by a frail looking bush was a miracle. My bike swaying in the bush with a steep drop off just beyond. By this stage the riders behind me had caught up and we dragged the bike back onto the pass. PHEW!!! Nothing wrong. What absolute relief! I started her up and onwards we went, a little more cautiously.

My guardian angel certainly watching over me.

We made it to the top and to the border post just before closing time and handed in all our passports in one bundle, “Carl’s” at the bottom of course, and distracted the immigration official as best we could with talk about soccer. He stamped us all in without fuss so through the border post we raced. Tension draining away as we clicked the km’s off, putting distance between the border post and us.

We set up camp on the top of the escarpment and now that we had stopped riding, felt the cold wind off the snow. After setting up camp we headed off to Sani Top Chalets Hotel and collapsed in front of their roaring fire in a state of exhausted elation. We had a superb meal before making our way back to our tents to see out the rest of our cold weather training.

Upon waking the next morning I saw a Sheppard walking past with what was the rest of mauled sheep’s carcass draped over his shoulders, “What happened?” I asked him in broken Sotho. “Jakkalas” was his reply which I took to be either jackal or caracal lynx.

As we started our homeward journey, I was grateful we got to live another day of high adventure on the Roof of Africa and thought; “Real hero’s don’t wear capes. They wear a Chef’s hat.”

We salute you Adrian Zeitsmann wherever you may be.

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