Finding Order Unexpectedly At Tsauchab River Camp

Have you ever entered a room and felt utterly overwhelmed by the décor, the sudden onslaught of colour, or the furniture layout?

I find antique shops cluttered with overstocked bric-a-brac, or art galleries where paintings hang too close together, and colours, textures, and patterns become a kaleidoscope of movement, confusing and unsettling.

A psychedelic wheel never ceasing its colourful spin. Farmer’s Markets have the same bewildering effect on me. Although I love attending them, I should do so without the crowds, or not at all, with a specific to-do list.

Once, I believed an adrenaline rush fuelled my creativity and that I could function optimally when my nerves were on high alert. That was, of course, rubbish. Once I’d realised I functioned best with a method, a system, and no clutter, mental or otherwise, to distract me, I performed best. The trick was to declutter my mind.

Cruising dirt roads suits me. I find the simplicity of slow, meandering drives through the countryside relaxing. Our bodies sometimes rebel. 

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Driving up the driveway on a scorching afternoon to the Tsaucheb River Camp made my tired, throbbing head ache. My first impression was that someone had haphazardly thrown a mass of rusting steel and iron about for a shabby-chic look.

Every square metre was covered with rusty metal, aged wood, discoloured leather, scrap metal, an old suitcase, and tyres. My first instinct was to wipe it all into the dry riverbed. Realising my anxiety, I sat down and ordered a tall drink, which was soon served in an ice-encrusted glass. After a few sips, things started looking up. I could face the assault on my senses.

There were collections of old farm implements, vintage cars, old tractors and trailers, scrap metal, rusty buckets and basins, ancient carriages, signs and stainless steel. Too much to take in.

My mind slowed, and my eyes focused on individual items. As I zoomed in, I noticed the order. An exact, disciplined order. Chairs were precisely placed around long tables. The vintage and antique Singer sewing machines were evenly spaced, and the suitcases with attractive travel labels still intact were stacked precisely. There was symmetry, a plan executed. 

While sipping our drinks and enjoying the delicious toast and my first grapes of the summer, my eyes wandered to the bar, its memorabilia a carefully curated collection, not a mish-mash of odds and ends. Under the high-pitched roof, a cool breeze wafted in, cooling us. I even smiled, intrigued and inquisitive, and found myself wanting to investigate, even touch, some beautiful pieces on display.

The antique green wooden two-seater buggy, upholstered in white canvas, drew me closer, and I wondered who might’ve been carried in it to church or communion. Did she wear a beautiful, embroidered gown and bonnet? Was she German? With her peaches-and-cream complexion, how could she survive the heat, the drought, and this punishingly hard life in some backwater of Africa?

Butch reminded me we should find a campsite. My eyes adjusted to the dark, cool reception office, where an attractive young woman was patiently waiting for us to enter. The bubbly, vivacious Nicki Steyn greeted us with a big smile and a firm handshake for such a wisp of a girl. 

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We set up our campsite under a gigantic wild fig tree on the left bank of the Tsaucheb River, a few hundred metres from the main building. Private and secluded, we felt like early settlers, surrounded by Kalahari grass and thorn trees. But first things first, while the sun was hot, I had laundry to do.

Later, as the sun faded and the crickets and cicadas quieted, frog choruses took over, filling the air with loud ribbits and croaks (if you’re French!).

We were sold after our first sunset and extended our stay from two to three nights. 

The old wild fig tree enveloped our ablutions, its roots, stems, and branches encircling the small rocky building. With a single candle burning on the small table, shadows danced along the tree’s limbs—an enchanted forest experience. Quite bewitching.

Our campsite was swept, and the braai area was cleaned every morning. At 15h00, the donkey would be lit for the evening’s hot shower, and shortly after sunset, candles strategically dotted around the campsite would be set alight. Romantic, calming, and incredibly special and thoughtful. 

During the morning, we’d wander across the dry, rocky riverbed for a coffee and a chat with Nicki, who enthusiastically told us about the farm’s history and how they built their flourishing business. She told us how Johan, her husband, a farmer, could call his massive herd of goats from the veld and grade them simply by whistling a specific tune, and the goats would trot off to their respective pens! His goats were very special and were exported all over the Middle East. A severe drought a few years ago decimated the flock and forced the farmers to diversify. Tourism was booming, so they decided to invest their time and energy in hospitality.

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Having Wi-Fi connectivity made it possible for us to catch up on correspondence. I had to finish some blogging. My writing was lagging. With Johan’s permission, I set up my laptop in the dining room, furnished with traditional, dark, heavy Imbuia ball-and-claw furniture. I spent the remainder of our first day writing, occasionally getting up to explore the intriguing front rooms’ nooks and glass-fronted cabinets, shelves and displays dotted around the rooms. Heirlooms and precious Meissen collectables made fine conversation pieces, I’m sure. A collection reflecting the rich history of a bygone age in southern Namibia.

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We had to stretch our legs, and on day two we slipped into our walking shoes, shorts, and hats and covered ourselves in squirts of tropical coconut sunblock. We arrived at the reception desk looking like Livingston and his sidekick. Nicki took one look at us and suggested we do one of their recommended 6km hikes. We protested, of course, but she assured us it would take at least 90 minutes. We relented. The day was going to be another scorcher.

With his backpack and stick at the ready, Butch set off with the sheepdog guiding us—a comfortable walk with many stops to admire the spectacular views, fantastic fauna and flora. We climbed the hills, and the landscape grew even more breathtaking. No camera can do the views justice, I’m afraid. One must experience them oneself. Hills, klowe, and canyons you can only see from above. Horizons that stretch forever and ever. Clouds of dust would become a vehicle trail as it silently neared us, then turned off or carried on, eventually disappearing over a rise. The only witness was a puff of dust.

The trail is called the Kokerboom Trail, and now I know why. There are forests of Quiver trees. Hundreds of them stand sentinel, guarding the valleys below.

Now and again, when the wind blew in the right direction, we heard goats bleating far below us in the valley. When the dog tired and rested, panting for a few moments, we stopped for a sip of water and our snack, enjoying the magnificent views as a tour bus approached from miles away. We waved, but they didn’t see us, camouflaged at the crest of a koppie amongst the dry grasses and cacti.

We rested, built a cairn, thinking of all our children and grandchildren, always wishing we could share the experiences. We were hot and flushed, but we walked until every joint, muscle and cartilage ached. By the time we returned to the homestead, we were exhausted yet exhilarated, our muscles stretched and well-oiled. We could say, “Aloha there, we’re all a quiver at Tsauchaub River Camp, and it’s a treat for sure.” We might’ve been touched by the sun, too!

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We spent the afternoon relaxing on a lounger by the crystal-clear pool with a book and a beer. I dipped in only once, and it was chilly. At six o’clock, the lady on duty presented us with a tray of delicious tapas. We assured her we hadn't ordered anything and were sure she’d made a mistake, rolling our eyes sideways to point to other guests. Still, she was adamant the chef had sent the tray as a complimentary gesture. All my resistance crumbled at the sight of finely sliced roast beef, spicy olives, homemade bread, biltong, pâté and other delicacies beautifully presented on a pretty platter. I’d explain later, I thought. We enjoyed every morsel. “Sit dit op die kaart my skat”, Butch said in a stage whisper. It was a generous gift from Nicki.

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On our third morning, I decided to explore the extraordinary collection of artworks and collectables, carefully curated and displayed throughout the property.

When we arrived, the assault on my senses was like an orchestra in full swing. Now I was ready to hear the strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion perform individually, and I could listen to the musicians’ interpretation, characterised by the duration, pitch, intensity, and timbre of the notes.

Wandering amongst the pieces brought me closer to the work and its meaning. Characters who once looked like a fistful of screws, nuts and bolts became mice on bicycles or friends fishing in a pond. The enormity of the Titanic’s sinking took shape as I looked at the upturned ship, and the little float with a survivor clinging to a life raft in a sea dotted with icebergs brought the tragedy to life. I stopped short when the penny dropped, and I saw an aircraft flying into the World Trade Center. It brought the day back so vividly. “Where were you when the WTC came crashing down?” I asked into the surrounding silence.

There must be plenty of time to think when you’re so isolated. Time to fiddle and piece things together. Like the teapot and gravy boat. A piece of wire here, an old pair of shears there, with some twisting and turning, who knows what an extremely talented artist can come up with. Creating something from scratch takes time, patience, foresight, physical strength and endurance. To keep at it takes character.  

My favourite pieces were the warthogs running on their tippy-toes (hooves) through the veld, tails held proudly aloft. The tortoise, rats, squirrels, porcupines, and Gemsbok were so well executed and cleverly crafted that they were Kodak-ready.

While sitting on a bench, focused on a single piece, I heard the notes. A small group of pieces brought the music. Then, when I’d done all that and turned full circle, I listened to the entire symphony. Crescendo, decrescendo, diminuendo, forte, and fortissimo. Bravo, Maestro.

To appreciate the art, we must step closer, move farther away, or sit quietly and enjoy the moment. My eyes had to adjust and “see” without overthinking a piece, I decided. That’s when I heard the rich, tuneful notes, trills and vibratos.

If words or expressions such as quirky, original, rust and dust, collectables, history, creative, extraordinary, mindful, playful, frivolous, fanciful, soothing, etc., tickle your fancy, then head right on over. You’ll not be disappointed. 

This extraordinary exhibition is precisely where it should be—not sold to individuals to be displayed on Steinways or propped up as a delicious monster ready to topple; they’re not meant to stand on marble or be shown in a gallery in Munich, Berlin or New York. They must stay and rust away in the Kalahari, and when that happens, I’m sure it’ll be replaced by something even more spectacular and passionate.

Nicki told us she has guests who return each year for three-week stays, and I understand why. We loved our stay and hope to be back one day, but we now have a date elsewhere.

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Johan, the gifted artist, and vivacious Nicki, we will never forget you. Your guts, determination, joy, enthusiasm and skill shine. While waiting for you to finish a conversation with clients, we’d hear the bubbly exuberance in your voice, the hope and the dreams you realise. You are both extraordinarily gifted at what you do. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality. Under the giant fig tree, we could recharge our batteries. Under the gentle light of candles, we settled and were ready for the next leg of our journey. Next time we’ll investigate Little Sossus; it’s on the bucket list, but now we had to hit the road; there were plenty of passes to negotiate. 

“Order provides the stability that we crave, but chaos creates the opportunities for change that we need.”

 www.tsauchab.net