It’s been a while since I’ve posted and there are a multitude of reasons which I may or may not get into in due time. I fully expect to document the entire tour but it has not been easy.
The following story however almost writes itself. It explains everything and it explains nothing. It explains Africa.
At least at its core it explains the Africa we are living on this 99 day adventure as we ride the length of the world’s second largest continent.
So, without a segue, let’s talk about duct tape – that seems reasonable doesn’t it? If there is one thing in life you can depend on it’s duct tape. There is not a man or woman on the planet that wouldn’t be proud to have the reputation of duct tape. It never lets you down. Whether your secure at home or wondering somewhere in the heart of the dark continent, there are few if any physical calamities in life duct tape can’t fix. Right?
On this trip already it has repaired my wallet and kept my I.D. from being lost. It has kept the straps on my sandals secure preventing me from throwing a shoe and it has reinforced the bottom of the small bag that holds my tent stakes.
My big black roll of the sticky stuff has been lent to fellow riders for similar tasks and never failed once. Though heavy and large, it was given a exemption when my bags were packed, it was ‘essential personnel’ for the trip.
So, on the 73rd day – of what I am now, under my breath, calling a questionably ill advised adventure for a nearly 79 year old man – when I reached for the duct tape, I did so with confidence.
The occasion was a spontaneous snapping of one of my tent poles. My tent is a North Face two person tent, meaning it has room for one normal sized person and a small midget. It’s a really nice tent, I like it as long as the midget is not along with me. It’s easy to put up and is supported by two long collapsible light weight aluminum poles. If you not acquainted with camping gear these hollow small poles are segmented into sections about two feet long, each one fitting into the next and held together with an elastic cord running down the middle. Fully employed the poles must be 12-15 feet long and the arch up from opposite corners with a bit of tension. It is from these poles the tent is suspended.
My tent was fully assembled and sitting in the hot afternoon sun a camp in Botswana called Planet Baobab named after the Baobab Tree
This African Baobab Tree has been documented to be 1,200 years old. Though not evident in this picture the Baobab’s nickname is the upside down tree as it’s branches frequently look like roots. The tree’s ability to withstand droughts is due to its ability to store massive amounts of water in it’s trunk. It’s leaves, bark and seeds are used medicinally in South Africa.
As I was arranging things in my tent and repacking my bags, I heard a loud SNAP. I wasn’t, near it, I didn’t cause it, it just happened. As I looked for the cause I saw a sharply pointed deformity in the rain fly covering the body of my tent. And then, like a chick hatching from it’s shell – or as I would like to think, a dinosaur – a broken end of a tent pole segment came poking through like a claw and made a sizable hole in the rain fly which enlarged as I tried to explore the cause.
I disassembled my tent and diagnosed the fractured end if a pole segment, there was no way in its current condition that it would support the tent.
My next step was pure genius.
After accessing my predicament I went to the camp bar and ordered a beer. I had quit drinking almost a year ago in an effort to try and retain whatever cognitive ability I still had left and I’m glad I did. Because, it didn’t take me very long to realize I had picked the wrong bike tour on which to quit drinking.
With my sweaty hand wrapped around a cool larger I poured out my woes to Karen. She was a new rider, from Australia, who had recently joined her friend on the tour. ‘Well,” she said, “I just happen to have a tent pole repair kit I brought with me – just at the last moment. You can use it until – if and when – my pole breaks.”
Karen is my new best friend.
The repair involved simply sliding a small metal tube over the fractured area of the pole and securing it in place with duct tape. Kinda like putting a cast on a broken arm but without the duct tape.
I put my roll of duct tape on my chair and reassembled the tent as the hot African sun tried to thwart me at every move. But I won, the repair worked flawlessly. Now all I had to do was tape the tear in the rain fly and I would have earned myself another beer.
Ha! Man plans, God Laughs.
I reached down for the duct tape and in the few minutes it took me to put the tent back up, the sun had turned my fix-it-tape into a gooey sticky unmanageable roll of African reality. Try as I may I could not peal off a strip of tape. The sticky stuff stuck to the wrong side of the tape.
What we have here is the first reported case of duct tape failure!
I immersed the roll of tape in water to cool it down, spent a good thirty minutes pealing back sticky stuff with my thumb nail, tried a scissors to cut away bad tape and finally succeeded in repairing the rain fly. Functionally at least, if not esthetically.
That night, as a soft sprinkle of rain pattered on the rain fly I prayed Karen brought a strong new tent on this ride.
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