Landscape of my past

The Capri’s three-litre V6 hits its sweet-spot at a hundred-and-sixty kilometers-per-hour and the trademark six-cylinder burble takes on a more refined note. All the vibrations through the thirty-year old body disappear and it feels like we are floating on air.


The sun sits low in the west and it looks like we will barely make O’kiep in time for dark. In spite of the speed, we progress slowly. We’ve been on the road for most of the day, and had many stops; to look at patches of flowers next to the road, to eat, marvel at the landscape and so on.
Eddie and Riaan have never been to Namaqualand, where I grew up. We spoke about going together for many years; yet the decision to go arrived suddenly and impulsively. It was spring and the famous daisies were in full bloom. There could be no better time to go.

We left Cape Town late-morning, armed with tank full of petrol, a wallet full of cash, hearts full of spirit, and a Bible. The N7 road was empty, beckoning us. The sky was clear and the sun warm; it promised to be a good excursion. And so far it is.

We pull up next to my grandmother’s dilapidated home in O’kiep just as dusk sets in. The house was build in the late 1800’s, and actually needs to be demolished, for a new one to be built. It has been weathering the harsh Namaqualand conditions for too many a season now, and is falling apart.

I grew up here, and for most of my life, is what I considered to be my home. It used to be such a big, even grand place. Now it looks small, modest and old. The big yard also no longer looks so vast, and the luscious garden of my childhood is shockingly barren and dry.

Ouma is getting old, and it shows.

The house is high up on the side a hill and faces west, into where the sun sets every day behind the busty profile of the Koperberg, a big, flowing shape so well-etched into my memories, it feels like I never left.

These are the playing fields of my toddling years, and my early youth. I spent days in and around that mountain. The solitude of aimlessly wandering through the dry scrub vegetation and granite boulders lives with me forever. It is a place of comfort I keep visiting in my dreams, and a place that recurrently visits me in my dreams. This is where I want to grow old and die.

O’kiep has hardly changed. A few new houses here and there, but essentially it is a slumbering town that has no reason to wake up. Its community used to provide the surrounding copper mines with labour, and most of those mines have closed over the years. Derelict mining buildings, shafts, dumps and holes hint at a once busy and noisy pass.

The Capri looks unsurprisingly at home here.

Ouma is of course happy to receive us. She lives here with my niece Lucille and her baby, and is probably happy for the new company. Curiously she strikes a cord with Eddie, and the two of them talk and talk and talk, while we drink tea and I guide Riaan through the house and the memories of my upbringing here.

We spent the rest of the evening in Concordia, 10km from Okiep, where we slept in my Uncle Albie’s new house that he is readying for his retirement.

The next morning we continue north. We pass Rietberg, a coppermine where my grandfather used to work, as well as my uncle Albie, in the days when he owned his Capri in the seventies.

We turn in at the roadhouse at Steinkopf, a sun-drenched, dusty place straight out of a bad road movie. It is hot and very little moves. I hear Chris Rhea and his longing guitar notes in the back of my imagination and expect to see a kraalbos listlessly rolling by in the warm breeze. Fortunately I don’t.

This is another town suspended in time. Like O’kiep, the town lies steep in a rich history no-one cares to ask about.

The last time I was here a few years ago, the beautiful woman behind the counter at the roadhouse did not recognize me; I was at school with her in this very town. It was quite an ego-busting moment, as I recalled certain unmentionable moments with her in the schoolbus with crystal clarity. My late friend Andre that was traveling with me at the time suggested I clearly did not leave a big enough impression…

But she no longer works here, and with my ego intact, we leave the roadhouse.

The last time I was here – come to think of it now – we were on another trip; a trip that was quite a dance with fate. It was about ten years earlier, and my cousin Derick in Port Nolloth sent me R2000,00 to Cape Town to find a car for him. It was to be his first car. Finding a good, running, roadworthy car for so little money, was a mean feat. But I did; a custard-coloured Datsun 120Y. And we (Andre and I) had to drive it down from Cape Town for him; with a drum full of water in the boot to keep the radiator filled because the engine was overheating. By the time we got to Port Nolloth the drum was almost empty.

We went into town looking for some old faces, and found some. This is where I went to secondary school for a few years; I meet my old schoolmate Vernie and his sister; and their mother who was a teacher at the time. We spent the afternoon visiting and drinking the obligatory tea, in the truest Namaqualand tradition. But we are not quite comfortable; there is a strange feeling that we’d rather be out there, chasing the horison.

As with O’kiep, the hills surrounding Steinkopf holds many memories, but these ones are more about the lost of innocence and the discovery of fellowship and belonging. The friendships I made here left lasting marks.

But it was also a time of philosophical and spiritual exploration; the first raising of questions of existentialism that haunts me still; the unearthing of intellectual and academic potential that has yet to find a vocation; of dreams of love and relationships that already then seem naïve, but I haven’t given up on. If anything, I haven’t grown cynical enough yet to stop believing in The Dream. I might be fearful, but not cynical.

Fool.

We finally leave Steinkopf behind and follow the trail of the sun to the coast. About 10km outside the town is a fountain and a plantation of trees called Klipfontein. I go looking for a particular tree where, 15 years ago, a girl carved our names out on the bask. I cannot find it.

But neither O’kiep nor Steinkopf hold my memories hostage the way Port Nolloth does. I have spent most of my upbringing here, and still refer to it as my home town. The Patrick that I know today, was shaped here.

We enter the decadent little town late in the afternoon, where it lays on the coastal plain in a forgotten corner of the country. The landscape, known as the Sandveld, is remarkably grey, flat and featureless. Most days are fog-filled or windy; and when the sun does shine, the radiation from the white sand makes wearing sun-glasses helpful, if not a necessity. It takes a special breed of people to carve out a living here. Not many can.

The town seems curiously asleep. But I know better. You have to stay and wait, until you discover its hidden pulse. In fact, this is the Sodom and Gomora of Namaqualand. If I lost my innocence in Steinkopf, I must have won my one-way ticket to perdition here.

This is where the once clean-faced, quiet church boy was uncovered by the local police to be “harbouring a gathering of undesirable characters engaged in undesirable activities in council property”. Simply put, I discovered a big, room-sized underground sewage drain that was not in use, and turned it into a hangout. It promptly turned into what we called “Club Underground”, a name with as many implications as you have rich an imagination! Those were reckless times, and I recall them with mixed emotions.

Port Nolloth is, and has always been, the administrative and economic hub of the diamond mining companies on the west coast. It therefore always attracted a strange assortment of people, giving it a uniquely (for Namaqualand) cosmopolitan community. Diamond smuggling is of course, at the order of the day, but no-one of course, is involved in it. The flashiest cars and biggest houses in Namaqualand are to be found here. It is the only town with a night-life worth mentioning - the only other place I left a night-club after sunrise, was in Cape Town.

But most of the people in Port Nolloth are desperately poor. And it is getting worse. Concessions for mining and fishing are snapped up by big conglomerates, as is the case everywhere else.

As we drive into town, the sun is setting and we aim straight for the seashore. The fresh, familiar smell of bamboo and fish fills the misty air, and the beach rocks are exactly as I remember them. And then it strikes me, as it did in O’kiep with the mountains, the only things that never, ever change, no matter how long I stay away, are the rocks.

No-one in Port Nolloth expected to see us, and was all too happy for the surprise. Some of the faces I have not seen for many, many years; nephews and cousins and friends. It is strange to see some of them married with children, especially Derick. He drives a big, luxury Toyota Camry now, instead of the overheating Datsun. It is already his 3rd or 4th car. He has a responsible job. He looks after a wife and three kids. We used to play together with wire-cars in the dust not all that long ago. He suddenly had become an adult. And me? God help me…

Painfully though, I cannot see every-one I want to, especially two of my dearest childhood friends. There is simply not enough time. Apart from that, visits like these have another sad side; you get to hear who passed away.

After lots of greeting and smiling and tea-drinking, we retreat to the beach, pitch a tent, and call it a day.

We awoke to find the rocky beach covered in spooky foam from the waves. The west coast can get very cold at night, but we had a pleasant rest inside the tent.

The morning we spent visiting some more, but our company has an air of urgency in it. Instead of smiling at each other over tea in someone’s living room, we want to be staring through the Capri’s windscreen at the horizon. We have become road junkies.

But before we head back east, we look up another Ford Capri V6 we heard about. Rumor has it is the one my uncle Albie owned in the seventies. We find it parked at a filling-station, and it belongs to the owner of the station. It actually might be Albie’s, but for some reason I doubt it. However, it does have the same gunston-colour with the wide rims, and is in very good nick. And it is definitely, absolutely, not for sale.

We had hoped to go up with the coastal road to Alexander Bay, and to where the mighty Orange River ends in the Atlantic Ocean, but we got worried about time. That sense of urgency is perhaps also informed by the fact that we have jobs waiting in Cape Town. So instead, we trace our track back through Steinkopf and O’kiep. After Springbok we turn east in the direction of Upington on the N14, the national highway that connects Namaqualand with Johannesburg.

It is one of those unbelievably straight roads with very little traffic. At one point, for a radius of 360 degrees, there are no mountains or hills on the horizon. Just a flat line all around you, like being in the middle of an ocean of earth. We stop the car. The silence is hard to describe, or imagine, for that matter. Not even a breeze of wind, the song of a lonely bird, or an insect scurrying away.
And if you listen long enough, you begin to hear what could be whispers. From nowhere to nobody.

The call of the road saves us from insanity, and soon we approach Aggenys. You see the town ahead perhaps 30 km before you actually arrive at it; Bushmanland is that expansive. I have always liked the town for its shady, green trees, palms and cool lawns. It is a true oasis in these arid, sun-drenched plains.

My Uncle Albie lives and works in Aggenys and we drop in for tea. He shows of his racing red 1970 Holden Monaro 5.0 GTS. The Capri is in happy company.

But on we go again. Pofadder awaits, were my mother lives. On the other side of Aggenys, we reach another remarkable place; the road starts a gradual decline into an incredibly wide depression; it takes several kilometers to get to the bottom to the dry river that eroded the landscape like this over eons on its way to join the Orange River. The road than start an equally gradual and long incline on the other side. This whole valley must be about 20km wide.

The sunset has caught up on us, and within this valley, we find the turn-off to Pella. So we head that way in search of a place to sleep.

Pella is a mission village settling on the slope of this wide valley and so deeply hidden under trees you don’t realize you are in it until you are almost halfway through. In the centre of the village is a huge cathedral surrounded by cool, tall date-palms, lending the place an Arabian air. I know some people here that will be happy to see me, but they don’t know I am here, so we drive on. Sorry, no more tea for us.

On the other side of Pella the road becomes tricky. We enter 4x4 country and have to slow down to walking pace, but chased by growing shadows, we press on. The low chassis of the Capri is remarkably capable, and we potter through a long canyon unscathed. The dry river-bed that the track follows opens up into a flood plain, and we arrive on the banks of the Orange River. This is Pelladrif, a popular camping site for locals and 4x4 tourers alike. Namibia lies on the other side, but it is dark now, and we can’t see it. In fact, we can’t even see the river, but the steady gurgling of the flow assures us it is there. Time to light a fire and pitch the tent.

The night before we went to sleep with the rhythmic, hypnotic splash of the cold atlantic’s waves carrying us into dreamland. Tonight we listen to the roar of the mighty Orange; lullabies don’t come much better than this.

We awoke to find ourselves surrounded by tall mountains dipped in the fresh cream of a rising sun. The air is crisp, and seeing the river for the first time is somewhat startling. What was a scary, pitch-black nothingness at night, now looks like a small ocean. It truly is wide, and flows rather fast. The strength of the current is obvious, and carved itself a deep canyon through the mountains. On the other side lies mystical Namibia, represented here by majestic skyscrapers of granite that dwarves even the river. We can see and hear a noisy family of baboons waking up on the other side of the river bank.

One of the only times in my life I ever feared death, was in these mountains. I was taking a walk without a hat in the very hot sun, without water, and already exhausted from climbing through a ravine in the morning. I used to do this a lot as a child, but under-estimated the toll of growing old. Besides, the sun of Bushmanland is much more blood-thirstier than the one in Namaqualand. My brain was baking in my scull; it felt as if the sunrays were concentrated onto the top of my head with a magnifying glass. I was dehydrated, and with no energy, I could hardly scrape myself from one shadow of a bush or rock to the next. But the most terrifying thing was realising I was alone. I could die and no-one would know. It would be months if not years before anyone would discover my skeleton. I had to stay put in the shade until almost sunset before dragging myself home, on the verge of collapsing, to where I was holidaying in Pella. I felt the effect of the sun-stroke for months afterwards.

Today marks the beginning of our return journey to Cape Town. But first, there is the small matter of having to say hello and goodbye to my mother in Pofadder. The Capri carries us faithfully back through the treacherous path and dusty Pella.

Rural legend has it that Pofadder has the most number of windmills of any town in the country. As you drive into the place it is not difficult to believe, seeing its profile from the side. It is a forest of shiny metal wheels whirling over the roof-tops. But I have never gotten to like Pofadder, and I have yet to figure out why.

Maybe I have a prejudice against it; maybe I resent it because my mother found a job here, having to uproot from the towns of my childhood, Port Nolloth and O’kiep. Whatever the case, I could never be comfortable enough here to even want to stay long enough to find out what makes the place tick. I only come here to say hi to mom; pre-occupied with how soon I can leave.

And this is the case now again. But this time I have two road-junkies with me; comrades in hastiness. The customary tea slows us down a little however, enabling us to go through the motions of a proper visit, catching-up and chatting and laughing. Even the commotion of visitors attracted by the Capri becomes tolerable.

I am never happy saying goodbye to mom. But I am usually relieved to be leaving. As is the case now again. I don’t know when I will make my peace with this town. And my conscience is comforted by the knowledge that mom visits me in Cape Town, when she has to flee the place herself. Then we have a real visit.

The red Capri looks racy, echoing our impatience. We want to be home in Cape Town tonight. That is eight hours away. We rev the V6 away without looking back.

We had hoped to continue north-east; to see the Augrabies waterfall, and perhaps Upington. We would then head south-west through obscure places like Kenhardt and Verneukpan, passing through the Hantam and Calvinia, eventually descending the escarpment onto the coastal plain and join the N7 again in Vanrhynsdorp.

But we went going nowhere far too slowly, and time has run out. They say the journey takes you, you never take it. They say a journey has a life of its own. Our journey has come to its end. We could manipulate time to do that extra leg north-east and than south-west, but it would not feel natural. It would be forced. We have absorbed so much, we are saturated.

Our lives demand us back. That is perhaps the truest indication of the end of a journey; when tasks and responsibilities you took a break from begin to weigh on your mind.

So Augrabies it won’t be. Verneukpan will have to wait for another time. Perhaps with bikes then.

All that matters now is that we are on the road once more. We hardly talk; we hardly look at the passing landscape; we are junkies too busy getting their fix.

The Capri hits that hundred-and-sixty kilometers-per-hour sweet spot and the rolling band of tar stretching out in front have us starring transfixed through the windscreen. We drive into the setting sun, as its rays bathe our faces in the last of their glow.

We are going somewhere fast now. Home.

This trip felt very much like the "Going Nowhere Slowly" experience.

- certain pictures courtesy of www.suedafrika.net, Car magazine UK (May 2002)