10 â€" 11 April 2005
With suitcase in hand I frequently climbed the steps up to grandmother Drieka’s small flat in Albert Street, Wellington. At night we lay in our single beds, each with a beer mug of water on the bed stands. It was always silent and pitch-black except for the ebbing glow of a smouldering ember. I would lie awake listening to her easy breathing and tranquil inhalations. My grandmother preferred to enjoy her cigarette in absolute silence.
After it was extinguished we returned to the stories of her Karoo and its strange people. She spoke of the phantom lights that floated over the koppies. And the old man who had a hidden cellar under his house where he kept all those abducted children. Horrifying stories! The weren’t suitable for a child’s ears at all but when my grandmother spoke with her distant fog horn voice in that dark, tobacco smoke filled room I feared nothing.
It was several years later but the stories from my youth remained with me. One day I decided to revisit the world of my grandmother.
Stellenbosch enjoyed a balmy sunny day. My motorcycle roared down the streets and I was hastily on my way to Ceres.
At Hottentotskloof the temperature dropped sharply. A thermometer will report honestly and clinically on 7°C ambient air but it is my skin and lungs that experience it with the intimate intensity it deserves. The cold felt like an old, remembered sadness â€" a sort of nostalgia that welcomed me to the Karoo. I shook away the sentimentality with a cold shiver and twisted the throttle wide open so that we could hurry away.
Dark clouds hover over the peaks and a veil of rain obscures the pass to Sutherland. The first drops fall hard and fast. A trickle of icy water runs down my spine and I shudder involuntarily.
Sodden and chilled I ride through the streets of Sutherland, on my way to the fuel pumps. The man with the sideburns shakes his head when I inform him of my route. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to use the gravel road in this weather.
Outside of town the sky returns to cobalt blue. Everything smells earthy and rejuvenated. My bike splashes through the dips with their amber streams. My delight is spoiled by ominous clouds gathering above. Rain and hail crash down around me. I make a grab for my collar but lower my hand when I see mud ahead. I slide crazily along the road but my bike and I advance gradually. I feel a cocky grin creeping across my face as I begin to master the road.
The rain stops abruptly. I look back and see a wall of water not unlike the one in that old Cecil B. DeMille movie where Charlton Heston herded the Israelis through the Red Sea, the Palestinians snapping at their heels.
The sun shines pleasantly over Middelpos but I decide to make the best of the weather and push on. A little ways on I see a shallow riverbed filled with an expanse Kapokbos seed. I decide to charge through it, hopefully kicking up a shower of fluff.
With a gruesome screech like fingernails on a black board my bike comes to a halt in the white mass. The rear wheel spins around uselessly.
It’s not seeds after all but a thirty meter wide field of hailstones. It must have washed down the river and accumulated here in the cold landscape where it stubbornly refuses to melt. I dismount and shuffle knee-deep through the icy hail. The motorcycle is wedged upright, no need to kick out the side stand. Whilst my furrow disappears I fruitlessly tug on the big machine. I push my hands into the freezing slush and begin scoopi ng it aside. My fingers burn blue but I keep going. Inevitably my hard work is reduced to naught as the hail slowly flows back around my motorcycle.
After an hour of hard labour I do manage to free the bike. The engine jumps to life with a familiar rumble and the heated grips gently thaw my hands. Ah, mercy!
The road is badly eroded. Ahead is yet another dip, practically identical to the many behind me. My feet are cold and wet inside my boots. I ride slower so as not to needlessly splash more water over myself. A deep fissure swallows the front wheel whole. My right foot shoots out automatically to stop my fall but there is nothing to push against. Before I can jump clear of the stalling machine the torrent unceremoniously pushes me over. I lie trapped under 1200cc of motorcycle and choke on the muddy water swirling through my helmet. Adrenalin rushes through my veins and I squirm desperately from under the weight. I anxiously bear against the motorcycle to ge t it upright. I scream wordlessly in frustration... but nothing happens.
“By the power of Greyskull!†I yell cynically.
“He-Man!†replies an ethereal choir.
Incredibly, I lift the bike out of the flood. Was I in time to keep water from entering the engine? I push the starter button ...nothing happens.
I reach over to the other side of the bike and wiggle the gear pedal. Eyes closed I depress the button again. I hear a brief knocking sound, followed by quiet. My heart hammers violently in my chest as I wrestle the bike out of the stream. I sit down on a clump of Bushman’s Grass and remove my fogged-up helmet. I am dumb stricken.
A nearby road sign heartlessly informs me that Calvinia is still another 50km away. It will take roughly ten hours to walk the empty road. It starts to rain again.
In the distance I hear the clatter of an approaching vehicle. An old baby-blue Isuzu appears over the ridge and stops beside me . It contains one farmer behind the wheel and two shivering workers on the back, tasked with holding on to a large, green gas cylinder. The three of them listen attentively to my story, their eyes occasionally darting to the bike.
The farmer offers his assistance and the workers whisk the big machine onto the back of the protesting bakkie. My grandmother has always been proud of the generosity of Karoo people.
We exchange names whilst driving. His name is Koot and he was busy delivering gas to his mother on the farm. Koot lives in town because his wife finds the solitude of farm life disagreeable.
Arriving at the farmstead, I get greeted by Koot’s mother. She doesn’t bat an eyelid about the bedraggled and muddy biker before her. We stow my bike in the shed and I follow Koot home like a stray. I remove my boots on the stoep and walk self-consciously over the dark wooden floor. It is comfy inside. Tapestries and portraits decorate the walls. Koot†™s departed father stares sternly form his picture frame. My room is at the end of the hallway. Thank you kindly.
Koot braais mutton chops over the fire while his mother bakes a lovely bread. My hosts are quiet and I feel uncomfortable. Koot and I sip brandy straight through the awkwardness and I soon begin to feel the alcohol making its way to my head. Before I can stop myself a loutish joke comes tumbling from my lips. The old lady laughs heartily and suddenly the ice is broken. After dinner we retire to more comfortable seating and talk about the rains. I enjoy a second drink while my wet clothes steam by the fire. I wear Koot’s old P.T. shorts and his father’s button-up shirt. Far inside the house I hear a hot bath being drawn for me. We have one last nightcap before I soak my weary bones. In bed I roll around fitfully, worrying about my bike. Will it run again?
It is morning and Koot returns from his inspection of the farm. His eyes smile because his d ams are all full. He drives me to Calvinia where his engineer friend takes a look at my motorcycle. We remove the spark plugs and run the starter motor. Water shoots out of the engine, clear across the workshop.
Then we remove the sump plug and a smelly milkshake-like fluid drains out. It takes ages to wash the water from the engine using oil but eventually that is also done. I hold thumbs as the mechanic pushes the starter button. The engine roars into life and my heart soars.
The ride back to Stellenbosch was uneventful. My thoughts lingered with Koot and his darling mother.
Later that week I paid a visit to my grandmother in Wellington. We huddled on the sofa and I shared my recent Karoo adventure. She hadn’t touched a cigarette for years but I could see that old familiar bliss come over her as she listened to me talk about the rains in her precious Karoo. And she smiled earnestly when she heard that one Koot van Schalkwyk’s dams were all full .
After it was extinguished we returned to the stories of her Karoo and its strange people. She spoke of the phantom lights that floated over the koppies. And the old man who had a hidden cellar under his house where he kept all those abducted children. Horrifying stories! The weren’t suitable for a child’s ears at all but when my grandmother spoke with her distant fog horn voice in that dark, tobacco smoke filled room I feared nothing.
It was several years later but the stories from my youth remained with me. One day I decided to revisit the world of my grandmother.
Stellenbosch enjoyed a balmy sunny day. My motorcycle roared down the streets and I was hastily on my way to Ceres.
At Hottentotskloof the temperature dropped sharply. A thermometer will report honestly and clinically on 7°C ambient air but it is my skin and lungs that experience it with the intimate intensity it deserves. The cold felt like an old, remembered sadness â€" a sort of nostalgia that welcomed me to the Karoo. I shook away the sentimentality with a cold shiver and twisted the throttle wide open so that we could hurry away.
Dark clouds hover over the peaks and a veil of rain obscures the pass to Sutherland. The first drops fall hard and fast. A trickle of icy water runs down my spine and I shudder involuntarily.
Sodden and chilled I ride through the streets of Sutherland, on my way to the fuel pumps. The man with the sideburns shakes his head when I inform him of my route. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to use the gravel road in this weather.
Outside of town the sky returns to cobalt blue. Everything smells earthy and rejuvenated. My bike splashes through the dips with their amber streams. My delight is spoiled by ominous clouds gathering above. Rain and hail crash down around me. I make a grab for my collar but lower my hand when I see mud ahead. I slide crazily along the road but my bike and I advance gradually. I feel a cocky grin creeping across my face as I begin to master the road.
The rain stops abruptly. I look back and see a wall of water not unlike the one in that old Cecil B. DeMille movie where Charlton Heston herded the Israelis through the Red Sea, the Palestinians snapping at their heels.
The sun shines pleasantly over Middelpos but I decide to make the best of the weather and push on. A little ways on I see a shallow riverbed filled with an expanse Kapokbos seed. I decide to charge through it, hopefully kicking up a shower of fluff.
With a gruesome screech like fingernails on a black board my bike comes to a halt in the white mass. The rear wheel spins around uselessly.
It’s not seeds after all but a thirty meter wide field of hailstones. It must have washed down the river and accumulated here in the cold landscape where it stubbornly refuses to melt. I dismount and shuffle knee-deep through the icy hail. The motorcycle is wedged upright, no need to kick out the side stand. Whilst my furrow disappears I fruitlessly tug on the big machine. I push my hands into the freezing slush and begin scoopi ng it aside. My fingers burn blue but I keep going. Inevitably my hard work is reduced to naught as the hail slowly flows back around my motorcycle.
After an hour of hard labour I do manage to free the bike. The engine jumps to life with a familiar rumble and the heated grips gently thaw my hands. Ah, mercy!
The road is badly eroded. Ahead is yet another dip, practically identical to the many behind me. My feet are cold and wet inside my boots. I ride slower so as not to needlessly splash more water over myself. A deep fissure swallows the front wheel whole. My right foot shoots out automatically to stop my fall but there is nothing to push against. Before I can jump clear of the stalling machine the torrent unceremoniously pushes me over. I lie trapped under 1200cc of motorcycle and choke on the muddy water swirling through my helmet. Adrenalin rushes through my veins and I squirm desperately from under the weight. I anxiously bear against the motorcycle to ge t it upright. I scream wordlessly in frustration... but nothing happens.
“By the power of Greyskull!†I yell cynically.
“He-Man!†replies an ethereal choir.
Incredibly, I lift the bike out of the flood. Was I in time to keep water from entering the engine? I push the starter button ...nothing happens.
I reach over to the other side of the bike and wiggle the gear pedal. Eyes closed I depress the button again. I hear a brief knocking sound, followed by quiet. My heart hammers violently in my chest as I wrestle the bike out of the stream. I sit down on a clump of Bushman’s Grass and remove my fogged-up helmet. I am dumb stricken.
A nearby road sign heartlessly informs me that Calvinia is still another 50km away. It will take roughly ten hours to walk the empty road. It starts to rain again.
In the distance I hear the clatter of an approaching vehicle. An old baby-blue Isuzu appears over the ridge and stops beside me . It contains one farmer behind the wheel and two shivering workers on the back, tasked with holding on to a large, green gas cylinder. The three of them listen attentively to my story, their eyes occasionally darting to the bike.
The farmer offers his assistance and the workers whisk the big machine onto the back of the protesting bakkie. My grandmother has always been proud of the generosity of Karoo people.
We exchange names whilst driving. His name is Koot and he was busy delivering gas to his mother on the farm. Koot lives in town because his wife finds the solitude of farm life disagreeable.
Arriving at the farmstead, I get greeted by Koot’s mother. She doesn’t bat an eyelid about the bedraggled and muddy biker before her. We stow my bike in the shed and I follow Koot home like a stray. I remove my boots on the stoep and walk self-consciously over the dark wooden floor. It is comfy inside. Tapestries and portraits decorate the walls. Koot†™s departed father stares sternly form his picture frame. My room is at the end of the hallway. Thank you kindly.
Koot braais mutton chops over the fire while his mother bakes a lovely bread. My hosts are quiet and I feel uncomfortable. Koot and I sip brandy straight through the awkwardness and I soon begin to feel the alcohol making its way to my head. Before I can stop myself a loutish joke comes tumbling from my lips. The old lady laughs heartily and suddenly the ice is broken. After dinner we retire to more comfortable seating and talk about the rains. I enjoy a second drink while my wet clothes steam by the fire. I wear Koot’s old P.T. shorts and his father’s button-up shirt. Far inside the house I hear a hot bath being drawn for me. We have one last nightcap before I soak my weary bones. In bed I roll around fitfully, worrying about my bike. Will it run again?
It is morning and Koot returns from his inspection of the farm. His eyes smile because his d ams are all full. He drives me to Calvinia where his engineer friend takes a look at my motorcycle. We remove the spark plugs and run the starter motor. Water shoots out of the engine, clear across the workshop.
Then we remove the sump plug and a smelly milkshake-like fluid drains out. It takes ages to wash the water from the engine using oil but eventually that is also done. I hold thumbs as the mechanic pushes the starter button. The engine roars into life and my heart soars.
The ride back to Stellenbosch was uneventful. My thoughts lingered with Koot and his darling mother.
Later that week I paid a visit to my grandmother in Wellington. We huddled on the sofa and I shared my recent Karoo adventure. She hadn’t touched a cigarette for years but I could see that old familiar bliss come over her as she listened to me talk about the rains in her precious Karoo. And she smiled earnestly when she heard that one Koot van Schalkwyk’s dams were all full .
