Thursday, December 26, 2030

#6: Clanwilliam to Klawer

I don't have to wait long.  Suddenly a tiny Nissan bakkie stops for me, a fast, bug-like thing, one moment buzzing along then braking hard and pulling up.  I run, as I do I see a little man hop from the cab and yank the canopy door open, then rush round to the passenger door, yank that open and start pulling out bags of groceries.  He flits back to the canopy, chucking the shopping in then darting back for more.  All this as I'm running in the dusk-light, wondering who he might be.
'Yes, now.'
He gives me a harried look, grabbing more shopping bags, in them Pepsi Max, cheese, milk, coco-pops. I try to help but there's not time, he's done it already.  He jumps in and I jump in too, the two of us in the little cab. 
'Worsie.'
'Milton.'
We shake.  He drives, punching the accelerator with a pair of chipped hiking boots nestled in thick rugby socks. 
'Waantoe gaan jy?'
'Lambertsbaai.  Self?'
'Namibia.'
He nods and that's it.  We drive.  I take stock.  It's a new world in this little cab, its right down low, brushing my head, we're sitting about a foot above the road. 
'Ek sal jou op die Wimpy by Klawer aflaai.  Daar's baie karre daar, baie Namibiese karre.'
'Cool.  Thanks.'
'Ek't al baie Namibia toe gery.  Luderitz. Windhoek.  Walvis.  Ondangwa.  Ek ken elke dorp in daai land.  Elke straat.'
'Regtig?'
'Ek't daar gebly.  Lorrie gery.  Maar hulle is poeste.  Hulle wou my nie permanent residence gee nie, so ek moes elke drie maande by n nuwe plek gaan werk, want jy kannie meer as drie maande werk as jy nie n permit he nie.'
'Dis nie reg nie.'
'Ja. Hulle is poeste.  Die government.  Ek het n vrou daar.  Glo jy dit?'
I check him out.  He's sly, suddenly, or sharp. 
'For sure,'  I reply.
'Sy's 23.'
He's about fifty-five.  I'm seeing a colored woman, or a black woman, some conquest happy for cash and a way out. 
'Sy's op vakansie op Luderitz, sy kom nou na my toe, volgende week.  Ek't vir haar gese, gaan hou vakansie.  Maar die mense op Luderitz is konte.  Clique-ey.  Hulle praat nie sommer met jou nie.' 
The woman has a way, I think.  With her tits and her smile she can melt the cliques.  She's got a way in, charming the Germans with her dusky skin.

'As ek kan sal ek daar bly.  Weet jy hoekom?'
'How come?'
'Dis vokken vylig, dis hoekom.  As ek daar is, slaap ek sommer met my vensters oop, in my lorrie, maak nie saak waar ek is nie. Niemand sal jou daar rob nie.'
'Jy ry lorries daarso?'
'Oorals.  Namibie, Angola, dis kuk hoor.  Dis fokkin warm in Angola.  40 grade, 43 grade, die hutte maak jou sommer mal.  Congo, Zimbabwe, Mozambique.'
'Jusis.'
'Ek kannie stil sit nie, my maat.  Ek het al probeer ophou.  Ek het al ge-retire.  Op my plaas.  Ek sit daar vir dae, een dag, twee dae, vyf dae, maar na agt dae, moet ek ry ou maat, daar gat ek.  Ek kannie stil sit nie.  Nie vir my nie.'
He drives. 
'Ry is vokkin lekker,' he says.
It's just about dark now. 
'Waar's jou plaas?'
'Op die Karoo.  Beaufort-Wes se kant.'
I've been thinking about the Karoo, not loudly, not even to myself, but it's been there.  Because I've been wondering at my route, trying to work the world out in my mind, and thinking that it might be nice to go through there on my way back down. 
'Weet jy wat die beste roete sal wees, om van Namibie terug Ceres toe te gaan?  Maar, deur die Karoo? Ek wil eintlik deur Sutherland gaan.'
Worsie thinks for a second, one second only.
'Die beste sal seker wees, gat links Vanrynsdorp in, van daar af Calvinia, dan af Sutherland toe.'
Is dit goeie paaie?'
In my mind the Karoo is big and dusty, hot and dry, and there are gravel roads snaking all through her on which a man can stand for days and see nothing. 
'Ja.  Dis goie paaie.  Dis beter om in die aand te ry.'
We drive.
'Daar's nie hutte nie.  En die lorries slaap, hulle trek af, so n mens kan lekker gemaklik ry.  Ek ry altyd in die aande.  As ek kan.'
Night is falling around us, the ride isn't long.  Soon he drops me at the Caltex or the Engen at the turn-off to Klawer and Vredendal.  I get a picture of him.  He's a livewire, a little African, as African as they come. 

I buy two pies at the makeshift shop, the station under repairs, and find a spot of grass in the back to relax on.  Its soft and cool.  I take my shoes off, lie back, dirty and happy.  I see the guy that I gave the apple to, a kid barefoot in shorts and a torn shirt, and give him money for a pie and a coke too, it being sacrilege and blasphemy not to give him some of what I've got.  Out in the open it's easy to be human.







No comments:

Post a Comment