My Many Miles To Mabuasahube

Plus, many hours spent practising MA-BU-A-SA-HU-BE and successfully playing the sympathy card. But first, we rendezvous at Melton Wold in the Karoo.

Planning a trip on short notice is very exciting. From the moment we decided, during one of our long boozy lunches, that we needed a quick getaway, I knew it would be an adventure. It was all systems go to get organised, especially since finding a reservation in Botswana was difficult. Butch tried unsuccessfully, so we called people who knew. We were advised to call the booking office no later than 8h30, which we did, and we saved the two telephone numbers for future reference.

With notepaper, a pencil and a hopeful attitude, we both had our fingers on the call button at exactly 29 minutes past 8. Success. The booking agents answered our calls.

Butch was online with someone in Tsabong, and I had the other number; he was somewhere in cyberspace. No, in Gaborone, actually. A very nice and helpful young man.

I employed every trick in the book and all my powers of persuasion, but soon realised I’d have to use my last resort. I did—the sympathy card. I mentioned, in passing, that my husband was ailing and that packing up and moving campsites every day would be tiring and very stressful. That did the trick, and I could literally hear fingers flying across the pages of the large ledger as he flicked this way and that. Ten days, it would be, madam!

Under normal circumstances, we might have preferred other campsites, but beggars can’t be choosers. We did have a foot in the door. Three nights at the entrance gate and 7 at Bosobogolo.

Planning began immediately. Winter woollies, menus, groceries, extra blankets, duvets, winter sheets, and my new electric hot water bottle. Sue and I shared meals and were “on duty” every other evening. The following day we’d have the leftovers for brunch. Coffee and rusks would do at first light. Then the cook would be off for two meals. This arrangement worked very well, and I thoroughly enjoyed knowing I didn’t have to be in the kitchen at all for almost two full days.

Botswana has always had very strict rules governing goods crossing its borders, and it enforces them. There is no point trying to hide meat and vegetables in obscure places; the officials know all the tricks in the book. Pre-cooked or processed products are fine. Strangely, wood is also allowed, as no wood may be collected in the parks and none is sold in the villages we stopped at. We had to buy bundles in South Africa.

For convenience, I decided to prepare many of my meals, freeze them, and finish them off when my turn came around—this suited me. Beef is, of course, one of Botswana’s prize exports, and butcheries in towns close to the park will supply one's needs if orders are placed. We placed orders for steaks, boerewors and chilli bites.

For the first time in many years, I started counting the sleeps. The Honey Badger was in tip-top condition as we eagerly awaited the return of the custom-made rims, which had been sent back to the manufacturer for X-rays and a guarantee that they wouldn’t leak air and cause us any hassles. Warnings were issued about the African roads (always a dicey business), and in the nick of time we had our wheels back.

Packed and ready to roll, we were a day ahead of schedule. Butch offered to sleep in the truck, but I insisted on sleeping in it. As dawn broke, we left our beautiful green valley behind, heading over the Hex River Mountains into the dry Karoo and north towards the red sands of the Kalahari, eager for the adventures ahead.

An ordinary journey becomes an adventure only when something unforeseen happens. Our trips are always filled with moments of camaraderie and discovery, and this time our road trip via Melton Wold, a hunting farm near Victoria West, promised more of the same.

Butch attends one hunt in the Karoo each year as a co-host, guiding clients and friends on a safari adventure. Invitations are sent out months in advance via a WhatsApp group, and as the date approaches, excitement builds among participants.

I know it’s the time when cupboards are flung open, backpacks and khaki bush gear are ripped from shelves, and beanies and his mum’s hand-knitted woollen socks are hunted for. The old scarf, shoved into the back of a drawer, is retrieved, ironed out and carefully placed on the “hunting” pile. He even goes off to the shops to buy a selection of sweets, nibbles and snacks for the day in the veld when he and a partner have to wait for the antelope to arrive.

With a goody bag full of snacks and sweeties, I was about to break my tradition by gatecrashing this male-only hunting trip. My nerves were shot, and I felt a mix of curiosity and apprehension about entering the world of men bonding over hunting, which I find both fascinating and a little intimidating.

We set off just before the sun peeped golden over the Hex River Mountains and stopped for our traditional coffee at the first Wimpy in Beaufort West. But I am getting ahead of myself. 

Everyone knows there’s a roadblock just before Beaufort West, so it came as no surprise when we were flagged down. No problem; we are always prepared for this inconvenience. I resumed my crochet work and only looked up when the young traffic officer took a second look at our licence disc. He stepped back, then returned to Butch with an announcement. Our licence was due to expire at the end of the month. We were in our grace period and would need to display our new licence soon. Did we have one? Nope, we did not. Oops.

Our new springs had to be tightened too, so we had a couple of errands to run. While the springs were being tightened, Butch made frantic calls to have a new licence disc issued. Fortunately, Percy and Sue, with help from the ladies at Butch's office, could attend to that. There was no way we could leave South Africa and enter Botswana without valid licences. We praised the traffic officer all the way to the border; his ears must have been burning for days.

We caught up with the rest of the hunting party for lunch. Beef Fillet “hamburgers” are a tradition. We ate at the top of a gravel pass, with a clear view of the Karoo landscape below. Beautiful. A thicket of birch trees had lost all its leaves, allowing a thin warmth to reach our faces as the crisp Karoo breeze tickled our noses. It was perfect for Hendrik, who did a recce with his new drone.

On this one, I’ll let the cat out of the bag. Working like a well-oiled machine, the men set up a table in a jiffy and laid out all the ingredients neatly. There was a lunch crew who had things nicely sewn up, while the rest of the party stood around, sipping drinks, chatting and relaxing. The hamburgers were delicious. Perfectly grilled meat, crispy lettuce and tomato, served with all the right condiments. The mop-up crew swiftly packed everything away, and rolls of kitchen towel and daily cloths were used to give every utensil, condiment bottle and the table a thorough wipe down. I was impressed. 10/10

A trip along a corrugated gravel road would not be extraordinary if all went well, and sure enough, just before Loxton, one of the vehicles got a flat tyre. Praise be, this time it wasn't Butch's vehicle. He is jinxed when it comes to gravel, tyres and holes. I did an air punch and shouted YES, forgetting how quickly the worm turns.

Melton Wold has a rich history dating back to 1838, when the first farmers acquired title to the land. Today, the farm belongs to Willem and Ronel Vorster, and besides being a game farm, they also farm Dorper and Meatmaster breeds. While the hunt was on, I braved the inclement weather to visit the local school and tannery, and I almost made it to the diamond mine, but I lost courage as my eyes were smarting and I felt the cold.

Although the Manor house is very impressive, the outbuildings ooze character, and the tree-lined avenues suggest a time of opulence and grandeur; much of the charm has faded.  My friend Tonkie, who taught at the school and reminisced nostalgically about the wonderful years she'd spent on Melton Wold, might be a little saddened now.  But then it is winter and the Karoo never hides its feelings.

At last, the hunters returned, all smiles as they’d reached their targets and the shoot was a success. After freshening up, we all met around the fire pit where tall tales were told, a prize-giving was held, and the mickey was taken out of the young guns.

I have always wanted to be a fly on the proverbial wall, and at last I had my chance. I loved it. The laughter, camaraderie, fun and games, and easy banter were delightful. Heartfelt speeches commemorated the event and the fun times, and bid farewell to those whose swansong this was and who would not return next year. Fortunately, they were hunters and not girls, so the moment passed in a flash, and I’m happy to report the men behaved beautifully, ladies. Later, we all enjoyed a traditional Karoo hunting meal together. Butch and I quietly slipped away after supper so the men could enjoy their evening without having to consider me, the outsider. I didn't want to be the fly in the ointment.

On Saturday morning, we all enjoyed a hearty breakfast before setting off ever north, but not before I'd taken a group photograph. We’d spend the night en route, and the next night we’d meet Percy and Sue, who’d spent two glorious days with friends on Kanon Eiland on the Orange River. 

We were almost there. At night, the mercury dropped, but I could switch on my new hot water bottle, bundle up in my flannel PJs, put on my bed socks, and wrap myself in my down duvet and new crochet blanket. I had my Vankids all around me; I was as happy as Larry. While sipping our mugs of hot, milky Milo, Butch and I agreed, “This is the life”, before drifting off to sleep.

The “adventure” was only starting.