Sunday, September 9, 2012

Faded red, smiles and a camera: a limited budget chronicle

This is long overdue, so long I have forgotten about the piece, rewritten it, lost it through a series of highly unfortunate events involving myself, a sub standard laptop carrier, the wet streets of Grahamstown and a shady businessman. 

All that aside. Here is the third attempt, at the first instalment of what aims to be a five part chronicle; the travels of myself and my partner in crime, interjected by characters familiar and unfamiliar. Two weeks of traipsing around the southern most tip of this continent, jangling from town to city in the faded red confines of the "rooi glorie." 


Part one: 

Running around my parent’s house franticly looking for the last few things to shove onto the back seat of the faded red Nissan, I give her a fleeting kiss and head off, in search of my notebook and a cell phone charger.

Anxious sweat as I drive up the Outeniqua Pass, on our way to Oudshoorn and the KKNK, probably best described as the Afrikaners’ last affirmation of what it’s  supposed to mean to be a Boer in post-1994 South Africa.

Cheap cowboy hats and boerewors fumes, we get out and start making our way toward the main hub of activity. Stalls litter our way and the capitalist urge to consume grabs me by the neck slowly suffocating me, I fumble around and find her hand in the dry heat, my sweaty palm already caked with what is to be a long hot day of trawling through endless stalls. It’s still early and I’m unable to convince her that it’s time to get a drink so we head, fully sober, into the noise. I pre-emptively buy her a scarf for her birthday and we head on, finally it’s noon and she suggests lunch and a drink.

We head to the nearest booze tent only to be reminded that it’s Good Friday, by a wiry old man preaching to a crowd of grandparents and young children. I guiltily sip my beer as I watch the ice in Mia’s wine melt and we chat about the hilarity of our position. She smiles and gives me kiss on my sweaty forehead... We’re waiting for a friend to meet us in this mess so we can head out toward the coast and our next port of call; Vermaaklikheid.

Sitting on the pavement outside the Pick’nPay smelling of PortaPotty cleaning liquid and Steers down the road, we see Mel approaching, we load the car and I bid a thankful farewell to the heat. Mia’s mixed CD blasts the past into our ears as we take Route62 and then head toward the coast.

A steady pace, my passengers napping as I hit the turnoff onto the gravel road to Vermaaklikheid, a primitive little town on the banks of the Duiwenhoks river. I’m wet, cold and a little miserable as I stumble into the big farmhouse with the baggage. A little loft room, more of an Owl’s nest, with mattresses on the floor, cosy with a lantern casting a warm glow over the jumble of things we brought on this trip.

Supper and some whiskey, a bohemian crowd around a rickety plastic table. Overflowing ashtrays and hearty laughter as I accidently tip a bench and I grip at Oliver’s crotch for support. As I slowly start to wind-down, I snuggle up to her as we move inside.  A grey weekend, endless cups of Rooibos, reading and general laziness, a quick walk in-between bouts of rain, just to get some fresh air, returning to my refuge by the roaring fireplace and the various half-read novels I thought I would finish over the holiday.

Three nights of pastoral bliss, and off we go to the Mother City. Two extra passengers and exasperating traffic over the Easter weekend, Sir Lowry’s pass a winding line flowing onto the plato of Somerset West and Strand, holidaymakers heading back to their little space, somewhere around the big mountain. Franschhoek, Oliver gets off and we move on, Mia and Amy chatting as I navigate the urban sprawl. A rushed goodbye at the airport and we’re alone.

The Backpackers a little shoddy; phone calls home, just to check in…