Medjool Dates In Klein Pella

Upington feels like our home away from home. But first, we had to get there. It was Thursday, and I’d made a pinky promise a year ago that I would never spend another weekend in Upington. Come hell or high water, I was sticking to my guns. 

We left the Richtersveld on a bright sunny day, filled our tanks with fuel and asked the guys milling about which route would get us to Springbok and the main roads to the Namaqua route. It was agreed we should keep to the dirt roads hugging the western border of the Richtersveld, which would take us past Lekkersing, then Steinkopf, where we’d rejoin the main arteries going north.

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

At first, we noticed the billowing clouds at the mines and then the slow increase of a breeze from the east—the Ooswind Butch informed me gravely.

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

As far as the eye could see, we saw a white misty curtain in all directions. We were in a desert in a sandstorm. Eerie, disturbing, yet otherworldly, I found the experience bizarrely fascinating, like floating on a whipped cloud. 

Slowly we made our way to Lekkersing, a small hamlet on the edge of the Richtersveld, entirely forgotten. Having experienced 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 VIP's left so did the financial spurt promised  and now only the skeletons of transformative buildings stand sentry while rusting into disrepair. There's nothing sadder than a forgotten building project. 

After hours behind the wheel stressfully navigating a sandstorm and us safely, Butch decided to call 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. Pollution in the sky always produces the best sunsets. The Ooswind made a spectacular sunset viewed 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, read and catch up on messages where we learned that Butch’s eldest sister, Jan was gravely ill. Our next stop, Upington. ETA Sunday afternoon. It's with sadness that I announce that Jan passed away yesterday afternoon (at the time of posting this blog). 

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Years ago, I read a book about an Australian femsle farmer who, after divorcing her scoundrel husband, owned a farm of one million acres; she’d just won the business person 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 12km drive and on the Saturday, we’d go out on a bike ride to the Orange River, another 17km and yet that would not be all.  Fellow campers whispered the farm stretches all the way to the coast and a lot further towards Upington and Kanon Eiland!

You might think the size, wealth, organisational skills and influence  a farmer like this has would impress me. It does, but what impresses me most about places like Klein Pella, Babylon’s Toren, Fairview, the vintage car museum in Franschoek, or the Pierneef exhibition is that these incredibly successful people allow plebs like me to visit, explore,  and enjoy the fruits of their labour and for a while, I experience, albeit vicariously, the success of their visions and dreams.

Our campsite was an oasis canopied by gigantic Acacia trees and carpeted by the greenest lawns. No sooner had we whipped out our table cloth and chairs that we dived into our hatches to find our bathers and towels and go for a swim. (my bather hasn’t survived winter very well; I think the elasticity has perished! C’est la vie!) While sunning ourselves after our swim, we were entertained by an ostentation of peacocks showing off. The ladies took no notice of them, turned their backs and left them to preen and show off their magnificent feathers. 

On Saturday morning, we set off quite early to explore the Palm plantations and vineyards and enjoy our picnic at the river. I increased my average speed from 15kmph to 19,4kmph (according to my watch) after sighting a large 2m black mamba in the road. I’d still be pedalling across the Kalahari if it weren’t dead!

There are two things that Butch is very aware of 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 of snakes is imprinted on my brain. Our doors are always closed and if we're in a tent we're zipped at all times. 

Two fishermen along the path were able to explain the presence of the electrical fencing surrounding the Palm plantation. It’s for the marauding monkeys and baboons, they said, their presence spelt trouble they said. 

Back at the campsite, our neighbours, returning from their holiday in Namibia, Laurika and Theo were stunned to discover they were victims of some monkey business. A troupe had caused havoc inside their vehicle and their rooftop tent, while they were enjoying breakfast, and had raided their supplies going through their ammo boxes. Strewn all around their campsite were the cast-offs of the pillage! Laurika was in the process of 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 continue snooping.

For the remainder of the day, we were stretched out on pool loungers, reading or napping. New guests arrived who we met and chatted to briefly, but they were on a Mom and daughter bonding weekend, and we didn’t want to impose. The world is small, we discovered. 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. Voila, there it was. Sleek, shark-like, a midnight blue helicopter. I could capture a few shots but 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 very swanky helicopter to find myself face to face with date buyers in white robes from the Middle East whilst I was pinching thorns from my one foot and doing a dance 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 were able to fill our tuck boxes with a supply of gorgeous Medjool luxury dates otherwise destined for the Middle East. Our dessert was a batch of homemade Cape Malay date balls. I’ve managed to squirrel away a few into the freezer as a surprise for later.

No matter how grand or rustic, a campsite gets my stamp of approval 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/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 and with both hands to my nose, smelt it! Well done. I must add it’s the only time I’ve camped that a simple, clean bathmat’s 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, smartly, we were back 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. Notwithstanding my Anna Wintour look (in 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. In time to do some shopping, catch up on our messages and social media and find a campsite before it was too late.

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