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…
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