Medjool Dates In Klein Pella

Upington feels like our home away from home, but I’d promised myself I’d avoid spending weekends there again, so we set off early. 

We left the Richtersveld on a bright, sunny day, eager to explore new paths. We asked locals about the route to Springbok and the Namaqua route, feeling curious and adventurous as we stuck to the dirt roads hugging the Richtersveld’s western border, which would take us past Lekkersing and Steinkopf, where we’d rejoin the main arteries heading north.

Since we’d never done this route before, we had all our navigational tools ready. We suctioned the GPS to the windscreen once again, with a warning to behave itself, and I had our map book open, my finger on the route. We set off.

At first, we noticed the billowing clouds at the mines, then the slow build-up of an easterly breeze—Ooswind Butch informed me gravely.

Everyone visiting the Namibian coast has, at some stage, experienced the east wind. It blows relentlessly off the dunes, bringing clouds of powdery dust and sand that can and will sandblast your windscreen and paintwork. Tempers flare, and moods plummet as the dust whips furiously all around, filling every orifice (if you’re outdoors in a tent like we were in Soussos Vlei, you’ll know all about it!) and driving a reasonable, level-headed person to distraction. I’ve witnessed it.

As far as the eye could see, we saw a white, misty curtain in every direction. We were in a desert caught in a sandstorm. Eerie, disturbing, yet otherworldly, I found the experience bizarrely fascinating, as if floating on a whipped cloud and awed by nature’s power. 

Slowly, we made our way to Lekkersing, a small hamlet on the edge of the Richtersveld, entirely forgotten. It had its moment in the sun when the park was officially handed over to SANParks and awarded World Heritage status. For the festivities, a minister of Tourism visited soon after 1994. When the VIPs left, so did the promised financial spurt, and now only the skeletons of the transformative buildings stand sentry, rusting into disrepair. There’s nothing sadder than a forgotten building project. 

After hours behind the wheel, stressfully navigating a sandstorm and keeping us safe, Butch called it a day and suggested we wild camp on the leeward side of a disused gemstone factory a few kilometres from Steinkopf. We’d have an early night and move on the following morning. Sky pollution always produces the best sunsets. The Ooswind made a spectacular sunset from our bed—red sky at night, shepherds' delight.

In Steinkopf, we filled our diesel tanks for the next leg of our trip to Klein Pella near Pofadder. We could also log on to our modem, download emails, and read and catch up on messages, where we learned that Butch’s eldest sister, Jan, was gravely ill. Our next stop is Upington. ETA Sunday afternoon. It's with sadness that I announce that Jan passed away yesterday afternoon (at the time of posting this blog). 

---oOo---

Years ago, I read a book about an Australian farmer, a woman who, after divorcing her scoundrel husband, owned a one-million-acre farm and had just won the Businessperson of the Year award. Even now, I can’t begin to imagine how large that must be.

Rumour has it that Klein Pella is one of the largest farms in the district and produces and exports the most dates in the southern hemisphere. Situated along the banks of the Orange River, the farm certainly lived up to the bush telegraph. It is huge. From the “big road” to Reception was a 12 km drive, and on Saturday we’d go on a bike ride to the Orange River, another 17 km. That wasn't all. Fellow campers whispered that the farm stretches all the way to the coast and even further towards Upington and Kanon Eiland!

What impresses me most about places like Klein Pella, Babylon’s Toren, Fairview, the vintage car museum in Franschhoek, or the Pierneef exhibition is that these successful people let us visit, explore, and enjoy their dreams. Their openness and generosity fill me with gratitude and admiration.

Our campsite was an oasis, canopied by gigantic Acacia trees and carpeted with the greenest lawns. No sooner had we whipped out our tablecloth and chairs than we dived into our hatches to find our bathers and towels, then went for a swim. (My bather hasn’t survived winter very well; I think the elasticity has perished! C’est la vie!) While we sunned ourselves after our swim, peacocks entertained us by ostentatiously showing off. The ladies paid them no mind, turned their backs, and left them to preen and show off their magnificent feathers. 

On Saturday morning, we set off early to explore the palm plantations and vineyards and enjoy our picnic by the river. I increased my average speed from 15 km/h to 19.4 km/h (according to my watch) after spotting a large 2 m black mamba on the road. I’d still be pedalling across the Kalahari if it weren’t dead!

Butch is keenly aware of two things while camping in the bush. One is the weather, and the other is the presence of monkeys and baboons. After years of camping, he’s experienced the downside of both. His warning about snakes is seared into my brain. We always keep our doors closed, and if we're in a tent, we keep it zipped at all times. 

Two fishermen along the path explained the electrical fencing around the Palm plantation. It’s for the marauding monkeys and baboons, they said; their presence spelled trouble, they said. 

Back at the campsite, our neighbours, Laurika and Theo, returning from their holiday in Namibia, were stunned to discover they'd been victims of monkey business. A troupe had caused havoc inside their vehicle and rooftop tent while they were enjoying breakfast, raiding their supplies and going through their ammo boxes. Cast-offs from the raid were strewn all around their campsite! Laurika was washing most of their belongings while Theo collected the debris! What should’ve been an early start home for them turned into a very delayed departure!

Karma’s a bitch. We’re just fortunate the cartload of monkeys had found what they were looking for next door and were shooed away before they could carry on snooping.

For the rest of the day, we stretched out on pool loungers, reading or napping. New guests arrived; we met and chatted briefly, but they were on a mother-and-daughter bonding weekend, and we didn’t want to intrude. We discovered how small the world is. The daughter, a medical student doing her practical studies, knew acquaintances of ours in Worcester. 

The woop-woop of helicopter blades made me sit up. In the distance, one was coming in to land. I jumped up, grabbed my phone, and ran. Within a minute, my feet were covered in devil’s thorns and burning on the hot gravel. Liam would love to see this, and nothing could stop me. With fifteen thorns in my feet, I hobbled up a garden path and steps, clutching the railing. Voilà, there it was. Sleek, shark-like, a midnight-blue helicopter. I could capture a few shots, but I couldn’t venture any further; I was clad only in my bather! 

I had visions of me, a grey-haired Ouma in a perished, stretched bather, crawling up to the swanky helicopter to find myself face to face with date buyers in white robes from the Middle East, while I pinched thorns from one foot and danced on hot coals with the other.

Butch came to the rescue. We would meet the pilot at eight the following day, before his departure, to take photos for Liam.

We filled our tuck boxes with gorgeous Medjool “luxury” dates, otherwise destined for the Middle East. Our dessert was a batch of homemade Cape Malay date balls. I’ve squirrelled a few away in the freezer as a surprise for later.

No matter how grand or rustic, I approve a campsite based solely on the ablutions. A five-star experience can go from hero to zero at the turn of a tap when I step into a shower and a boiling or icy-cold trickle dribbles down my spine. I can even live without a hook or bench, and in the South African context, I will forgive dimmed or even no lights. Well done, Klein Pella. You earn a 9/10 (no one’s perfect) score from me.

No, it’s not the hot water, lights, or the working showerhead. It’s the bathmat that was the deal breaker. It was such a surprise. I picked mine up, brought it to my nose with both hands, and smelt it! Well done. I must add that it’s the only time I’ve camped when a simple, clean bathmat has stolen the show, because it’s the first time we’ve EVER been given one. I could pack ours away and enjoy my tootsies drying on yours. Such luxury. Thank you.

At eight o’clock, we were back, smartly dressed, to watch the pilot, Vincent, do his final checks, start up, and take off. He even had us pose while he did the honours. Thank you, Vincent. Liam was suitably impressed. Despite my Anna Wintour look (Vogue, oversized black sunnies, hat, and scarf), he recognised me from my mad dash across the thorns the previous afternoon!

We decided to set off early and reached Springbok by noon. We had time to shop, catch up on our messages and social media, and find a campsite before it was too late.

---oOo---

https://www.karsten.co.za/karsten-group/karsten-orange-river/dates/ 

I share my photos for your enjoyment, and who knows, they might inspire you to visit these exquisite places too. We're experiencing excruciatingly slow Wi-Fi. I'll post the bulk at the end of the blog for your enjoyment. Butch just hailed a taxi to get to the MTC store to sort out our modem. Until next time, enjoy some armchair travel with the Honey Badger.