Road Tripping With The Knights - To See The Sea - West Coast Summer Part 6

Two notable events occurred last weekend. The first was my 1974 annual class reunion luncheon, and the other was a Worcester friend’s 70th birthday celebration.

This is not a Cinderella scenario... Yes, we’re at that age. Your first thought might be, “Oh my goodness, how old they are!” But I see ageing as a sign of a life well-lived, full of laughter and vitality that many younger families haven’t experienced. They are so busy and caught up in their lives that time to simply be is rare. Being consumed by existing and the struggles of everyday life can be overwhelming and leave one with little energy to be happy or content.

The reason? We value genuine, authentic relationships-those we can trust and rely on, which bring us comfort and joy in daily life. My Mum and Butch’s Mum often said, “I’m lonely but not alone because I have the newspaper to read.” Sarine always says, “I’m alone but not lonely.” I want to be in that group.

I might be painting an unrealistic picture because not every day is easy. But the point I try to make is that meaningful relationships and friendships will be the heartbeat that keeps us going.

Right now, days after our get-together, we are still buzzing. I smile whenever I think of those 24 girls; they energise me, and I know I have a bunch of mates who have my back. Together, we’re weathering life’s storms, and we’re paddling our canoes with resilience.

When we’re together, everyday worries and difficulties seem to melt away, replaced by gratitude and joy spiced with unabridged laughter and fun.

Between us, there is an unspoken loyalty, no fake friendships and no masks. It is perfectly okay to say when asked, “What do you want in life?” to answer, as one of the girls did, “to be left alone.” She said it, and she meant it. (This girl didn’t mean us, of course, but the wannabees in their estate who show off new Maseratis and Lamborghinis and unashamedly flaunt their privilege.)

 (Various ladies took these photographs, and all the honours go to them.)

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To the Sea – The West Coast

What we needed was a good dose of Vitamin Sea. If I could pickle or encapsulate myself in Ozone, I would. The plan was to revel in the west coast wind, shout into the crashing waves and beat my fist against my chest if I so wished. I hope my angst doesn’t ever boil down to that. I don’t like making a spectacle of myself, but so be it if I did.

From the highlands of the Karoo, we wound our way down from the Piekenierskloof in low gear and high spirits. The underbelly of the Honey Badger resisted and groaned as she shifted down. We stayed in the left lane, firstly to enjoy the yellow cornfields of the Swartland ahead of us and secondly to let the impatient drivers in the traffic backing up behind us pass.

Far away on the horizon, blending seamlessly with the blue sky, we could see the faint outline of Table Mountain, as usual, shrouded in a haze. It was a clear day.

In our eagerness to get to the coast and our campsite at St Helena Bay, we didn’t even slow down when we crossed the Vlaminke Vlei, the pink saline pans and estuary of Velddrif.

Our noses were set on one course, and that was it.

The first impressions of a town are always the lasting impressions, and these pictures are what make St Helena Bay so special. The quaintness, its authenticity, and what’s more, even though there has been tremendous development and gentrification, it has still retained its heart and soul and people. I hope that never changes. There should always be a place in the sun for everyone. 

We all agreed the Municipal campground was the best choice; we’d been there before and found the management excellent and the facilities first-rate.

The manageress secured a four-day reservation for us, after which the park would be chock-a-block with pre-booked reservations made a year ago. She assured us there would be no cancellations!

Campers reserve their spots for their next holiday while they’re here. To secure a sight in high season is near impossible. Newcomers have to hope for a death or divorce to get a spot.

In situations like these, when one has little choice but to obey orders, we often make the best use of the time given to us. We certainly would not waste any precious moments.

Exploring by bike is what we did; it’s quicker and lets us cover more ground.

But we ditched that and took up walking along the shoreline. That better suited our mood.

Sue and Percy were on holiday, they said, and often when we returned from our jaunts, we’d see their beach umbrella open on the beach, and there they’d be reading their books, their berry brown bodies slathered in sunscreen. They were as happy as Larry.

One morning, Butch received a message from our friend Johan, whom we’d met in Luanda, Angola. He was at home and wanted to meet for lunch at one of his favourite seafood restaurants—Jud’s.

A beautiful new space just a few meters from the beach at the other end of town. The shop attached to the restaurant invited me to browse, giving the guys time to talk man-to-man without my interruptions, opinions and ten cents’ worth of information or enquiry.

It was lovely to see our friend Johan, such an interesting man, he knows everything there is to tell about Angola, having been involved in the diamond mining industry there for many years.

He’s passionate and enthusiastic about Angola, and we agree. A country so misunderstood and underrated by South Africans. We sincerely hope there’s a flood of tourists to magnificent Angola in the future.

Whenever we’re with Johan, we have fish. As one does when you’re on the coast. And why not? I certainly didn’t mind; it was Friday, and Fridays are traditionally known as Fishy Friday in our home.

Our time spent in St Helena Bay was relaxed; there was no pressure to do anything, which is what we did: slow walks, gentle cycles and a tiny bit of exploring.

The beach has a lovely stretch of sand which is perfect for a morning or afternoon stroll, and we did it all the way to the harbour.

I have a thing about boats; I can’t resist them. I love their shape, size and the exotic stories they evoke just by looking at them. A fishing boat tells fishy stories: where they sail, how far they go, what life on a fishing vessel is like, and how long they remain out at sea. A tanker tells another story, freight their cargo around the world.

I suffer from motion sickness, so although I am fascinated by boats and find them irresistible, sailing does not float my boat.

Often, tucked away in these small commercial fishing villages, there are little chapels for sailors to attend religious services, and you wonder how their faith survives after their days or years at sea. Maybe the allure of the sea is precisely what makes their belief strong.

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Poetsies was fun—a very quaint, shabby chic restaurant and craft shop. The owner was friendly and offered us a coffee, which we couldn’t decline. I was hot and bothered by our long walk looking for a fresh fish supplier, anyway.

We were told that no fresh fish is sold to the public in St Helena Bay; all the catches are delivered to the fish processing plants, which I find rather sad.

Right there, between the stocked shelves and the deli products, were two four-seater square tables with pretty, brightly coloured woven grass placemats. Can’t resist that now, can one? As soon as we took our seats, another couple joined us at the next table. We struck up a conversation and had ourselves a lovely time, and that I think is precisely what the owner aims to do. Bring people together. I like that.

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Soon, Percy and Sue were as brown as berries from their hours stretched out on beach towels, and we decided we’d pick up sticks and move on.

But before that, while we were still discussing a new direction, we had a surprise visit from Doesie.

Oh, we’ve come a long way. Her mom Ouvrou was my neighbour, and with Doesie we’ve celebrated the birth of our children, marriages, becoming grandparents, we’ve mourned the loss of a parent, cried through a divorce and mourned the death of her spouse.   

Doesie was the last person to wave us off when we left on our African travels. She made a memorable trip from her home, taking a day off work as a nursing sister and the matron of a home for the aged. And here she was welcoming us home.

We share the love and fascination of a Kukumakranka plant, which thrives in these parts. Whenever Doesie sees one in flower, she sends me a picture. They grow in her garden, she says, and last week a friend’s specimen flowered, and I was included in the photo share. That is special.

For Doesie, “If I had a flower (kukumakranka) for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever”, Alfred Lord Tennyson.

A quiet, thoughtful, gentle, kind and fabulous friend. So it was not too much of a surprise when I received the message to announce Doesie’s arrival for sundowners.

Butch kept the conversation going with his delightful stories of our adventures, Sue and Percy made supper, and I listened, interjected, and added my ten cents’ worth. Eventually, when we’d exhausted ourselves, Doesie brought us up to date with all her news. While we were away, her Mom, Ouvrou 97, relocated, unbeknownst to her, initially to visit her daughter, Nunu (these kids have the most fabulous nicknames), and now goes home on visits. Quite happy to be Nunu’s guest. Doesie has a grandson whom she adores and a busy schedule to keep up with. Retirement is nowhere on her horizon.

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We were back on Malmesbury Road heading to Velddrift.

Down the long farm entrance guarded by a row of ancient Eucalyptus trees, we wend our way to a farmhouse where the owner points us to their campground and a few cottages on an estuary, vleiland, and river.

There was no one else camping, which was quite strange at this time of the year, but I suppose most campers with children would rather spend their time at the ocean. We didn’t mind.

The views were different, the landscape quite stark yet beautiful, and it inspired me to walk, taking a different path every day.

The Flamingoes wading in the cerise-pink saline water were an attraction, so off I went.

I have no recollection of the meals Butch and I prepared (they must've been pretty arbitrary), but the ones Sue and Percy served us were divine. I am so impressed with their camping skills; they really make a meal an occasion, and every plate is carefully planned, the ingredients are stocked, and the execution is flawless. But more than anything else, they did it with such generosity and effortless joy.

Thank you, Perc and Sue, for having us around your table, for sharing your precious time with us, and for making our reentry into local life such an incredible experience. You both rock our world, and we love you.  "Julle is lekke man lekke." (West Coast, for "you are fantastic.")

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My distinct memory of that time is that I started listening to a podcast called True Crime South Africa, researched, written, and narrated by Nicole Engelbrecht, who has a large, dedicated following of super sleuths and is one of the top five true crime podcasters worldwide.

Nicole has since published two books, ‘Bare Bones’ and ‘The Samurai Sword Murder.’ I highly recommend the podcasts; they are available on Patreon, Apple, or Spotify (I prefer Spotify). I find Nicole’s lyrical South African accent lulls me to sleep at 3 am when I’m wide awake and unable to sleep. I think her podcasts are addictive.

Walking is my go-to therapy for everything. It’s like a dose of cod liver oil, you don't know why you have to take it, all you know is it's good for you and won’t kill you! I walk when I’m happy, sad, content, discontented, bored, or in need of a break from a hectic schedule. It has “saved” my life when times were difficult, and when I just needed to calm down and get going before procrastinating. In my wanderings, I've discovered a million gems like this labyrinth.

I believe walking is very healthy for the feet, legs, tummy, heart and head. I know we must be on our feet for at least 6 hours a day; our bodies need weight on our feet—it's how we’ve been designed. Long strides are good; short shuffles are not. When the wind blows on my face, it clears my head, and when it blows on my back, it spurs me on. Absorbing sunlight through my eyes acts as a natural antidepressant; a suntan makes me feel alive, healthy, and fit somehow.

While we travelled, Butch and I shared a tiny space, and still do, getting out to walk does us the world of good. Each in his own space, at his own pace, and with some "me time". I’ll walk all day before doing the cod liver oil treatment.

And just like that, this part of our adventure was over, too. Time to pack up and head off. Being a retiree who's been out of circulation for three years makes one forget that there are people who still keep to a schedule like the Knighties do. They needed to get home, they said. So we packed up and off we went, but not before we enjoyed one last golden sunset.

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We have often seen the Sishen iron ore train rumbling next to us on the tracks, but this time we flew over it on our way to Paternoster. This, I believe, is one of Transnet’s longest trains.

The longest train in Africa and the world was the Mauritanian iron ore train, which stretches approximately 2.5km and consists of 200 cars, transporting iron ore from the mines in Zouerat to Mouadhibou, carrying 85 tons of iron ore per car.

I wonder if people catch a free ride (rail surfing) on our iron ore train as they do on the Mauritanian train?

I have just read in Business Tech that in Oct 2019, Transnet launched its longest train, spanning four kilometres and carrying 375 wagons, which will run over a distance of around 860 km between Anglo American’s Sishen mine in the Northern Cape and Saldanha Bay.

So who knows? 

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Our last stop on this road trip was Paternoster. How can you resist Paternoster if you’re in that part of the world? I doubt anyone can. That’s another thing about South Africa; there are so many places one “has to” revisit, even when, like me, you don’t want to retrace old steps because there are so many new spots to discover. The call to revisit special places like  Paternoster can’t be ignored. The Hobbit house is always an attraction.

Fortunately, no matter how often you go, there will always be something new to see and discover.

At Oep vir Koep, we parked the truck and went to see what was going on in the village. We spent the day there, had lunch, and browsed a new shopping experience with interesting galleries, boutiques, eateries, coffee shops, and the Die Koelkamers Theatre, all housed in an industrial-like complex.

I love meeting up with people I know in unexpected places, and seeing Brother and Yolandi, who were on a romantic getaway to celebrate their anniversary was the cherry on our cake. Their smiles and hugs made our day. It is not often that we spot a CW-registered vehicle, and seeing one always gets our hopes up that it might be someone we know. On this occasion, we were in luck.

Our route took us to Worcester, where we would be negotiating with Bushwakka to have the Honey Badger serviced. Our girl needed a facelift and nip and tuck now that the African was coming to an end. But first, to have a tyre repaired. The story of our lives.

The sunset reflected on the dam on a farm in Tulbach was the fitting end to our holiday. A good time to reflect.

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As I mentioned at the beginning of this blog, two things happened last week: the other was a 70th birthday celebration.

How wonderful it was to see friends and acquaintances all gathered under one roof. We just fell into place, joined conversations as if we’d all met the month before at the Book Club, Drinks Club, Herb Club or the Gym. This is the familiarity I miss, where nothing needs to be explained or questioned, you’re just one of the gang. For someone who has never changed her brand of toothpaste, perfume, or sandwich spread, familiarity grounds me.

Shortly after I arrived in Worcester in 1981, I remember a girl, the receptionist at JP’s hairdressing salon, who was from Cape Town, warned me that it would take at least 3 years before I felt at home or was accepted in Worcester. That might be so, but once you’re one of the boys, you’re an accepted member of the clique forever.

The most significant observation of all was that not one of us had aged a single day. As vibrant as ever, we were.

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This morning, I watched a fishing vessel chug into the harbour, heavily laden; it was settled like a fat duck in the sluggish water, with the deck only a few meters above the waterline. The diesel engines strained, but the sea was calm, not a wave or breath of wind in sight. The full moon was still faintly shining in the early morning light, and the spring low tide was gently pushing the boat to the harbour wall.

Tattoed fishermen were lining up for a hot brew at the small tuck shop. A pickup pulled up to collect fresh fish for his clients, and a group of fishermen stopped to pat Felix (the Pug I’m dog sitting) on the head before trekking home to their families.

In this fishing harbour, the boats’ names are apt and represent the harbour they set sail from. Blougans, Stormgans, Vleigans, Wildegans, Kolgans, Rietgans, and then, of course, there are the Amores, Lady Imeda, and I Do’s too.

A Gans can be a goose or a duck, I suppose. The literal translation doesn’t conjure up the same picture of a working fishing trawler in my mind. (Blue goose, Storm duck, Wild Goose, nope, it doesn’t work.) The only duck that works is a Rubber Duck or a Robi Duck!

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"She didn’t grow up with you, but the moment she entered your life, it felt like she’d always been there. No long history, no childhood memories, just an instant, effortless bond. She’s the one you trust without overthinking, who never drains your energy, and who becomes your safe place without even trying. Now, life without her?

Unimaginable.