Makgadikgadi madness

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What did reporter Charlie Norton think he’d be taking part in when he flew to Botswana to join a group of cyclists crossing Africa to raise money for charity? Certainly not the Makgadikgadi Pans – a harsh, expansive landscape that had never before been crossed by bike – as it wasn’t in any of the expedition’s plans. Or so he thought… The blurred ground speeding beneath me emanates a pink hue in the evening sun. I can see nothing but a few other cyclists, a few bleak grasses and a shimmering horizon. I’m cycling as fast as I can over a vast, uninhabited landscape, a featureless place that can take the greatest toll on anyone who gets lost – death. When I arrived in Africa a few days earlier, I had certainly not planned to acquire my cycling legs while attempting to cross one of the world’s largest and most inaccessible salt pans. I had come to write about a team, led by Barty Pleydell Bouverie, who are cycling 8000km across Africa to raise money for TUSK charity conservation camps. Unbeknown to me, the team had recently changed their sensibly planned route, plotting an extreme adventure across the Makgadikgadi Pans – a journey no one else has likely ever contemplated, let alone completed. Considering I’d never cycled more than 30km in one go my entire life, this Kalahari foray (my first) seemed like a very stiff introduction, but it appealed to the romantic in me and I agreed to take part in the adventure. I was told we would first need to cycle 50km or so along “bad” tracks to reach the pans before commencing the 80-100km journey across the encrusted salt, which might or might not turn into a muddy quagmire under tyre and foot. As we were crossing at the end of the rainy season, there was no way of knowing how dried out they would be. We had to take everything with us to make the crossing – food, water, medical gear, spare inner tubes, GPS and maps – because we were going to cross without a support vehicle. Things quickly got serious. They made me throw away some of my clothes, and handed me the communal tinned peas and pilchards to carry. Then they went to work on my bike, changing the handlebars, gear settings and more, tweaking the hardy Ridgeback Panorama touring bike into an off-road specimen worthy of the salt pans. The team I was joining consisted of five members: Chris, who was in charge of bike maintenance, the GPS and stats; Craig, the most laid-back and graceful cyclist, but the brooding force behind all meal times; Jess, the toughest of the bunch; Xavier, a homeless Frenchman with a great sense of humour who had been staying with the Centrepoint charity in London before he was given the opportunity for the trip; and of course Barty, or Captain PB as he was known, who seemed so remorselessly dedicated to his two wheel odyssey that he was auditioning for the part of Shackleton on a bike. At one stage there was potentially to be a sixth, much higher profile member. HRH Prince William, who had launched the trip and is a patron for Centrepoint and TUSK, had privately showed a keen interest to join the expedition. However, security complications shelved his ambitions. As we set off in the late afternoon I was full of excited anticipation of the joys that lay ahead – that was until I peddled into my first African vacuum of time and distance. The deep sand had come out of nowhere, replacing the all-too-brief stretch of tarmac. We were told the road would get better in “about a kilometre”, a phrase I heard repeatedly over the next 15km. My biked slewed from left to right as I peddled vigorously in a low gear desperate to remain upright. When that failed I resorted to pushing my two-wheeled pilchard transporter. We camped in the bush that night and I remember a deep relief that it could only get easier. The next day was the unluckiest of the trip. There were never-ending problems with failing pannier holders, warping wheels, pinging bungee cords and leaking water containers. And let’s not forget the tracks that weren’t even on the GPS maps. My personal tragedy was my water supply flooding my pannier, ruining my camera, phone and iPod. The air and sand temperatures didn’t help matters – they were both close to 40 degrees Celsius in heat of the day. My 20km biking jaunt via a pub in the Norfolk countryside hadn’t prepared me for this. I just kept falling off in deep troughs of sand, and although I developed a technique of catapulting myself from the bike to avoid being squashed by my panniers or clubbed by a pedal, it rarely worked and my legs were a bloody mess. Balance was the key, but in straining to keep my bike straight I aggravated an old back problem. I was muttering profanities under my breath, but was continually humbled by the sight of Barty struggling along with a preposterous water container the size of a small fridge balanced on his bike. Apart from one sensory-diverting field of lavender, which lived up to my romantic image of cycling in Africa, this hellish environment was home to nothing other than rock and sand. Despite my exhaustive cycling and pushing efforts all day, we had yet to even find the pans. The GPS seemed as lost as we were until we stumbled upon Jack’s Camp, a luxury tented safari operation. We camped on its outskirts and our experience couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the safari-goers. We erected our small tents and then sat in the open around our fire, eating as much mealie-meal as we could ram down our throats. The vegetables we’d mixed in were as good as it got. Despite the pleasure of seeing a brown hyena as the sun was rising, breakfast the next morning brought more of the same fineries. I had bit my tongue and held it for the best part of two days, but when we still hadn’t reached the pan proper the next morning, I truly started to wonder what they’d dropped me into. It quickly came to light that the idea to cross the pans was the inspired contribution of an Irishman after a few too many drinks in Maun earlier the previous week. He’d suggested the team take this direct, though more drawn-out route to his research station, where they’d previously scheduled to meet him for a tour of the pans. They’d arrived in Maun a week early and this was thought to be an adventurous way to fill the time. It was also at this point when I also learned that there was no record of anyone – ever – crossing these pans by bike. The fact that we neither had any knowledge of how the terrain would vary, nor vehicle support, truly hit home. The only thing I was sure of was that there were quite a few instances of people dying of exposure out here. We continued south for a few more kilometres before we cut our own route east across the pans. It started a little like a runway of tarmac but we soon learnt it would never be that solid under our wheels. To subscribe or buy back issues, click here  Sometimes the crust cracked satisfyingly, like icing on a giant grey cake, but at other times it sank like a sponge, bogging us down and making us pump our legs furiously to avoid being caught like a fly in ointment. The pan was also a sun trap, the temperature soon rising to 45 degrees Celsius. We took shelter from the midday sun by stretching our tents over upturned bicycles. Then there was more bad news at lunch – we realised that our 2.5kg brick of mealie-meal was in fact flour. While my stomach was weeping we beetled slowly across the pans in a line. Except for rough grasses, a few pied crows, flying termites and the occasional aardvark holes, there was very little evidence of life here. The heated, warped air hovering over the pans seemed to make the distant trees seem within reach. In truth, they were oases of shadow that were not to be. By the time we eventually hit a rhythm, dusk was approaching. It was then, while pushing our bikes through a series of grassy mounds, that my back flared up again very badly. I hung at the back with Xavier, who – it must be said – was starting to be very amused by my condition. Our minds started to wander and we thought of our chances of catching, roasting and eating an aardvark. As the sun started to set, a rising red glow grew from the curved horizon and filled the sky. It’s now that the blurred ground beneath me radiates the evening sun’s colours. We need to make up time so we continue to cycle in the dark, holding up a couple of bike lights between us. With emptiness all around us, it is quite an extraordinary experience. It’s like furrowing through treacle on another planet somewhere deep in space. We camp out on the pan, sleeping under the stars, despite the temperature approaching freezing in the early hours. It being so utterly silent, I can’t help but remember this is one of the few places in the world where you can hear the blood circulating through your ears. We rise at 4.45am the next morning and stumble on through long grasses until we reach a long track that runs along the ridge between two of the pans. The track is yet another sand-filled nightmare, but after 10km or so we find a cattle station. Thankfully, as our water supplies are worryingly low, the young man who lives here is happy to replenish our supplies. He even sells us a little mealie-meal. However, he does seem confused about what we are doing, just muttering, “Yes, yes, but a car would be better.” I can’t help thinking that our crossing has been saved, but after 20km more of sandy troughs connecting the two pans what was left of my back is now gone. I eventually find a road and hitch a ride with Jess around the final 30km of the pan, while Barty, Chris, Craig and Xavier battle on. I am so exhausted that I can hardly move. Pushing and slogging my bike some 150km over the most inhospitable terrain had taken its toll. And when I finally arrive at the research camp, our finish line for the pans crossing journey, I find Graham McCulloch – the man whose alcohol-fuelled idea was responsible for my world of hurt – a little worried about his drunken dare. Later, as we are contemplating the state of the four remaining cyclists, we get a call from Barty mumbling: “It’s wet, Graham, wet. The pans are so wet. Wet.” We hop into Graham’s jeep and race down to the edge of the pans, putting on the headlamps so they would be able to see them on their final stretch. Eventually we catch sight of their bike lights moving slowly in the distance. So after 10 more hours of peddling, pushing and wading through mud, they finally emerge from the gloom relieved to be alive. They are all in a wide-eyed state: Chris has gone through eight rehydration sachets in less than two hours; Barty had been in mud up to his chest, almost sinking entirely before being freed; Xavier was hysterical with joy; and Craig could hardly speak. They had hit the last pan mid-afternoon and made great progress on a hard crust until dusk came upon them. It was at that point that it got wetter, and wetter due to the water being pumped out by the salt mine. In their fatigued state they had become disorientated by the flickering glow of the salt mine’s lights, and they didn’t know what to aim at. It was at this point that Barty almost fell victim to the mud. They said that they thought they might die, before they steadied their nerves and got the satellite phone working. They then followed Graham’s headlamps to safety. We had all probably risked too much making this unprecedented crossing, but the gamble had paid off. Unlike my physical agony, which is lingering evidence that the Makgadikgadi Pans are not a forgiving place, my memories of its magical landscape and our incredible journey will not fade as time passes by. More information about the Cycle of Life can be found at www.cycleoflife2008.com. Details about TUSK charity conservation camps and Centrepoint is available on their respective websites, www.tusk.org and www.centrepoint.org.uk. Charlie Norton travelled with The Ultimate Travel Company (www.theultimatetravelcompany.co.uk).

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