Road Trips and Desert Graves

Since my father took us on that first holiday down to Amanzimtoti back in the seventies, I’ve been hooked on road trips. We always left at some un-godly hour in the morning, and while the rest of the family slept in the back seat, I’d be sitting, wide-awake, watching the road with my dad. We’d never talk and I never asked how far we still had to go. I was too afraid he’d say “just around the corner”, and the adventure would be over.

You could say it was as early as my 5^th birthday that I started learning to drive as well. I’d watch my dad working the clutch, changing gears and maintain a steady speed as we drove through mountain passes and flat stretches of nothingness. The radio would be playing softly in the background, and all you could see were the lights piercing the darkness.

I always knew when we were nearing our final destination, as my father always planned our trips so that we would arrive sometime in the mid-morning, and the rising sun would be the telltale sign that we were on the last stretch. Those in the back seat would start to rise and my mom would offer my dad some coffee. This meant that we would pull over at the next roadside picnic spot, and mother would break out the sandwiches and coffee. My mom asked about the trip down, and my dad would give her the run-down on the traffic, and how the car was behaving. You see, the last stretch belonged to my mother. She enjoyed driving with the windows open and inhaling the crisp ocean air, while singing her favourite songs. We’d be nose to the windows, trying to be the first to see the ocean.

Those were great times, and the start of my Road trip addiction. Ever since then I’ve travelled this country from one end to the other, up and down and across. I’ve been to almost every town you can think of, or randomly pick off a map with your eyes closed. From Pongola to Port Nolloth, and from Alexander Bay to Coffee Bay. I’ve been to little known gems like Pella, and stretched on the beach at Tsitsikama. I’ve seen all the beauty this country had to offer before the developers spoiled the view.

I always thought that the Karoo would be the last bastion of country life, but the rich are buying out farms quicker than you can say “city life”.

It was during one of my road trips that I looked for that piece of land in the middle of no-where, which no one can touch. I don’t care if you offer me twenty million dollars, it’s mine and it’s staying mine, till the day I die.

My dad paid a pittance for it 30 years ago. I inherited it 2 years ago, and it’s mine. Even if I were to put it on the market for R5 today, no one would want it. You see it’s a ten acre outcrop in the middle of the desert, and there is no running water or electricity. If you were to run electricity to the place, it would cost you a small fortune, and even Eskom’s most hardened workers would refuse to put up the required pylons, or dig trenches in this inhospitable place.

To me it's paradise and I love it. If you’re able to dig even a half a metre into the ground you can bury me here.

Thanks.