tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87488393065907841622024-03-05T15:42:18.882+02:00Tales of the HitchMusings, Memories and Stories of 15 Years Hitchhiking on Southern Africa's Roads. Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-29910078275640005972030-12-30T10:35:00.000+02:002012-11-27T07:55:20.619+02:00#1: Vredenburg to the West Coast Road Crossing. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I walked out of Vredenburg, a small village
on the South African West Coast. I was walking on the road's shoulder, on the
gravel part. I watched the gravel under
my feet, yellow, orange, black and brown, heard it crunching. I looked up to
the open skies of the Boland. Pale blue with slight, high white cloud. I didn't know exactly where I was going, only
that I was going. I was excited and
nervous. As I walked and looked the
color in the world rose, taking on the sheen of travel. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I stuck my thumb out. I hadn’t done this for some time, a long
time. Doubts surfaced. I wondered if I was too old, if it wasn’t appropriate
anymore. I wondered what would happen, going
out and away on the road, putting myself in the arms of fate and
strangers. I'd been planning this for
ages, talking about it, dreaming about it, but hadn’t done it because I was afraid. I had begun to think that it wouldn't happen,
that I wasn't capable. Now, walking
along the road, thumb out, I saw that all that time of doubting had been in
vain, because always this moment had been approaching. Car sounds rose behind me, grew, then were gone. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vredenburg" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6gaz6-r9MQmQjnP5cOeQYXn8r2fQSQV-7FqzM6Ge_YjeQ664enSr4_Vqhqk5nd2RXJ_He9IybYVv_OpKQ9rYs6YQeH8VGX5MIT4NHmp8oTiRoVDq-KFBu2xzQTC2IX8ZnVPcz7QE73bV/s320/vredenburg+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vredenburg" target="_blank">The Way Out of Vredenburg</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I began to relax. I realised hitching isn't hard. It’s the kind of thing you don't forget how
to do. Not just holding your hand out,
but everything; the feeling of not knowing, of going, the mindset of travelling
with strangers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I didn’t want to turn around and look at what
was coming up behind me, right then just listening was enough, wondering
who. Suddenly, a white Cressida pulled off
in front of me, dust smoking up from under its rear wheels. Suddenly, I ran, bouncing left and right
under my heavy, red backpack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">Pulling the back door open I remembered a
lesson of hitching; always get the door open.
Get in, take ownership, get involved so that they have to take you. Even though the ride has stopped doesn't mean
you're in there. Be open, show yourself,
get it going. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">The back seat was cluttered with
stuff. A suit, unhung, unfolded, a
suitcase, a tog-bag, a surfing magazine lying on the seat, I saw everything in
less than a second. My rucksack flew
from my hand, onto the magazine and I stepped round, opening the front before
closing the back, so that I was always already inside. I looked into my new lift's face. White man, early sixties. My first in years. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Hello.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Hello.' <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">He was soft spoken, a light Eastern Cape or
Kwazulu accent. Kindly eyes and skin
with a pink glow to it. On his chin and
cheeks was month old, pure white beard, on his wrist he had one of those copper
bands, those white boy, white African boy copper bands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Hi.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Hello.' <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">He smiled wider, I was beaming, my doubts
obliterated in the rush of this old, beautiful thing that I knew. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Where are you going?' I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Cape Town.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I'm going to Namibia,’ I say, ‘I'm going
on a mission up to the border.' I had
thought of that before, in random talks, but now it became so, that was where I
was going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Oh? I've just come from there,' he says.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I wait. We start driving. I know it’s coming. We’re going to talk. Wheels turn as he begins to tell me
everything:</span><span lang="EN-US"><br />'I live in the Eastern Cape, close to the
mouth of the Kei River, close to Port Alfred.
You could say I've come the long way round.' He smiles again. He looks like a Father Christmas in shorts,
in summer, driving a rented Cressida and only a month into his beard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I drove up the East Coast a few days ago,
Richards Bay, from there to Bloemfontein, Kimberly, Upington and Namibia. I spent some time there. Why are you going?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I just want to look at it,' I say, 'I
think I just want to stand on the border and mark it, point at it, then come
back.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">He nods.
He likes that. His friendly eyes
crinkle. Then he leaves that look and a
shadow surfaces from underneath. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I'm on a walkabout,’ he says. ‘I'm 65 and business is slow. I'm trying to decide whether to retire and
chuck it all in, or keep going.' <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I can see he's tired, weary underneath. I tell him I want to write a book about
hitching. <br />‘Do you know?’ I ask him, ‘what I mean? What hitching is like?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"> The
kinds of conversations, I tell him, that you have with strangers, locked in a
space with the country whizzing by and no way to fill the space but by
talking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Have you had them?’ I ask him, those conversations
that explode over hours, provinces, memories of them settling on the road? He
listens intently, his head stretching forward off of his neck, eyes down to the
left, imagining. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I think it’s because it’s a finite time that
you have,' I say, measuring the time out between two hands, one of them close
to his face in our little space, 'we both know that chances are good we'll
never see each other again. It’s a
guilt-free, no strings attached conversation.
On a long hitch ride, two could talk about anything, see anything.' <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'Yes,' he says, touching his beard, the
smile lines blooming, 'I know. I do
know.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">He prepares, inhales. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'I used to drive a taxi, before my kids,
before I was married even. I was a
Psychology student in Durban. I drove people round the docks, mostly, and they
thought they could tell me anything. I
used to study them. I'd sit waiting for
a fare parked somewhere, studying my books, and then a call would come in and I'd
be off. I had many experiences.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">'There were lots of prostitutes, they'd
rent me for the night and so I'd drive them around from place to place, wait,
listen, read, wait, talk. Sea captains,
sailors, businessmen, housewives, at the docks.
I tried to record everything in my mind.'<br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">He shakes his head. It was a good time, he tells me the best of
it. But
he wasn't taking me far. It was only
nine kilometres to the crossing where right and south-east will take you to
Cape Town, and left and west to Veldriff and the nearby sea and the climbing
west coast up to the desert and diamond country, Pofadder and Springbok. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">As the stop came closer the conversation
dried, just like that. We knew it
wouldn't be possible to start another topic, so there was no point, and we
became quiet and uncomfortable. As he
slowed and steered off his phone began to ring.
It was the girl in his office back at home, questions about staff and
such. I slipped out. Putting a hand over the phone he looked at me
and smiled. I waved and walked
away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US">I sat down on the side of the road on top
of my rucksack and wrote all of this down.
I'm on the R47, what's known as the west coast road, at the turn-off to
Vredenburg, about 20 kilometres from Veldrift.
I've had my first lift. I've done
it. I've really gotten going. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-3175817869243279972030-12-29T18:06:00.000+02:002012-11-27T07:56:41.540+02:00#2: The Vredenburg turnoff to Veldriff.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A white, double cab Nissan Bakkie stopped
just as soon as I started.
That felt good, charmed. I did my same back door front
door trick and when I got in saw that this man was older, perhaps in his late
sixties, wearing shorts. We sped off and I began the
preliminaries.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'<i>Hoe
gaan dit vandag?</i>' – ‘How’s it going today?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">'Ag,
redelik</span></i><span lang="EN-US">.' – ‘Oh, alright.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He had that grizzled, hard, heavy
look. An Afrikaner I thought, because
Afrikaner's generally seem heavier. But
there was something more. He was shaky
in some way, uncertain. A timid Afrikaner? It was doubtful, but possible. </span>He wore steel rimmed spectacles and a hearing aid nestled behind his large, old man's ear. As I watched him I thought perhaps a touch of Parkinsons, a tremor in
the hand and sort of a light stutter when speaking. I tried to relax.
I remembered I had once hitched a lift with a man with Narcolepsy, who
told me so while he was driving, saying that he tended to fall asleep around
strangers. I had watched as his stranger's foot juddered against the pedal. I saw that this guy had a glass ashtray stuck
to his dash-board, just right of the wheel.<br />
'I like your ashtray,' I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I keep it there so when I'm filling up I
can just throw it in the bin,' he replied, giving me a shy smile as he mimed the
throwing of the butts, 'that's why the car doesn't stink.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I sniffed and thought that although there
was a tinge of smoke, it could be much worse. I noticed that some money had fallen out of my pocket and tried to pick it up, but it fell into a slot around the handbrake. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">I asked him if he'd ever leave South
Africa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Never.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Why not?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I'm very happy here. We have retired here to Veldriff, and this is
a wonderful town. There is so much, more
than enough to do to keep you busy. I'm
a member of the boating club, I've got a boat at the marina, and I'm a member
of the yachting club, and the fishing and the bowls. My wife and I have a social calendar that is
full to the brim. But if I wanted I could
take it easy too.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He was warming up just a little now, but
still the hesitancy and the tremor were there, the touch of something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Another great thing about the town is
there are no vagrants.' <br />He pointed
around outside the cab and I looked. What I saw was the dry of the west coast bush,
the smallness of its little white buildings, their modesty and the flat acres of the open country
spreading down to meet with the open sea, and further, the open sky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'You see it?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I don't know.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'There's no industry. There's no jobs here. So no one comes here. We are a quiet community.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He was right, it was the outsiders here that had
money. Locals lived as their parents
had, only their clothes were different, and their cellphones. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">'Ek wil n boek oor Hitchhiking skryf,
oor... die...' – </span></i><span lang="EN-US">‘I
want to write a book on hitchhiking, about… the…’</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><br />
I struggled. I started using my hands a lot,
I caved in and used English words like 'psyche' and 'country.' <br />
He watched me, nodded, then said, 'I get
you.' He said it in English.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Right then realisation dawned. He didn't have Parkinsons, he was English
speaking, struggling to speak Afrikaans. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I love the west coast,' he said, 'it’s better than the garden route. In the garden route everything is there for
you. You don't have to look for it. It’s right there. Beautiful.
The rain forest, the lagoon, which is great, but it’s not like
here. Here the land is more essential. I prefer the ecology here. These plants,' he sent a hand out
and across the empty ashtray, 'have to survive.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I think I know what you mean,' I said. 'For me the west coast is special because it
grows on you. It’s not pretty when you
first look at it. It takes time.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">As we crossed the bridge into Veldriff, over the widening mouth of the Berg River, he gave me some advice.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.sa-venues.com/attractionswc/velddrif.php" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj492s-beEr1iNHPgLe2EwIm9Cy7-3I5O-u0hAYSrRsdj7cEemcmDyZtskO8GvvNwEu7cWDYLoezm-iBwrYObgrI4OR4tgNt6Zw2zN-HaKGZ_dacpY7xqhbijS-DhlDzsdQWYY14KsYedJd/s320/veldrift.jpg" title="Veldriff" width="320" /></a></div>
'You can take the R–399, that goes from in
town, just ahead here...', he said, '...which will take you straight to Piketberg. Or, there's the coast road that goes all the way up. Dwarskersbos, Elands Bay, Lamberts Bay, then Clanwilliam.'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'What should I take?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Straight to Piketberg there's a lot more
traffic. You should probably take that.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'In my mind I had it that I would go up the coast as much as
possible,' I say, 'so I'd rather take the coast
road.'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'There won't be a lot of traffic, that I can promise you.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I don't mind. I don't have a time limit.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He nodded and drove. He was a lanky man, thinner and longer than
the first.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Don’t tell anyone about Veldrift,' he said
as he dropped me off, right on the coast road that I
was to take, 'we don't want all sorts of people coming here.' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I laughed then looked for the money I'd dropped in the beginning. He watched me, wondering what I was doing,
rooting in the slots between the seats, moving his hanky aside and
seeing his lighter and a spare. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I dropped this two rand when I got in,' I
said, holding it up. </span><span lang="EN-US">He nodded and I made sure that there was no
lie in me. To end our time with me
stealing little bits of change would be, well ... odd. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">I walked away, </span>off into
the heat. I looked around at the west coast. There was no deep green out there, nothing lush. It wasn't pretty. Nothing undulated, everything was crooked, cracked. An essential place. I walked hard, happy to sweat. The heat
reminded me that I was free of every humdrum thing. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-9201090642024951482030-12-28T18:12:00.000+02:002012-11-27T07:58:17.737+02:00#3: Veldrift to Dwarskersbos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;">I walked for a short while, perhaps twenty minutes, moving it in the heat, wanting to get gone. I passed a school playground. It was break time so the place was swarming. I watched one boy sitting up alone in the corner of the long fence that went all around the school. </span></span></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-kqwlCJTnGtDS9YPT-qy7WWiF4LUihr4xTgpuoDyuBEjTQReTpqWKki_CpVsoezrhzesE9DRgElGJ7Tp0OAwtAJtPZw1-jSrjDLl8kbP-I8UTmxtzRiZl2qsVf_5BS-CnJKkFVivYtvJ/s1600/veldriff+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-kqwlCJTnGtDS9YPT-qy7WWiF4LUihr4xTgpuoDyuBEjTQReTpqWKki_CpVsoezrhzesE9DRgElGJ7Tp0OAwtAJtPZw1-jSrjDLl8kbP-I8UTmxtzRiZl2qsVf_5BS-CnJKkFVivYtvJ/s320/veldriff+school.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;">I tried to take a photo of him on my cellphone, surrounded by open veld and open sky, but he jumped down before I was ready. Instead I recorded the <a href="https://dl.dropbox.com/u/73733608/veldriff%20school.mp3" target="_blank">sound of the place</a>, </span><span style="text-align: left;">the screaming of the kids and the silence, the blowing wind and the gravel crunching underfoot. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was passing a big, empty housing development. <span style="text-align: left;">This is the new West Coast. They are to be found everywhere. Invisible towns complete with streets and lines and driveways, but no houses, save the sales office at the entrance flanked by massive signage.</span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">The road ahead was hazy. One or two cars passed and then it happened again. A white Bantam. It screamed past at 160, then suddenly it slowed, bonnet tilting forward over its little black wheels, engine dropping down fast, breaklights bright red. I ran, bobbing left and right, kind of moon hopping with the padded weight of the rucksack. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A Bantam is a smaller bakkie, a single cab. I saw this on my approach so I prepared by pulling the rucksack off and getting it into my hand, ready to swing it into my lap as I swung down into the car. </span><br />
This
man was in his early fifties and definitely Afrikaans.
Short, graying hair, muscular, sunburnt face. Crows feet at the eyes, hairy and hardy. He was washed clean but no doubt an
outdoorsman, a peering at the weather man. We began with silence. Me not
knowing, he not knowing. I watched the coastline pass, the holiday complexes
slowly emerging from the bush, sand and sun.<br />
Suddenly, surprising me because I had thought that silence would be it, he
told me that the temperature outside has come down from 34 to 24, from
Piketberg to here. He was pointing at
the digital thermometer on the dash. I
realised he wanted to talk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'It
didn't feel 24 outside,' I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Thats
because you were walking,' he points out.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'You're
right,' I reply. 'What do you do for a
living?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I'm
an architect. I've got my own
business. I've just been finishing a job
in Piketberg. It's the boring part. Just checking the finishings.' </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="http://www.property24.com/for-sale/kersbosstrand/velddrif/western-cape/12326" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KH3GDpyqWwRi_-DcXaLQ1DL5ZEn4r1wmTgo4Tv8FmjuKJWTHLoy8Xip0dumKfHeOjf1s7uMHbLzVTrbgNjfS6O587g_4B7obJoGmoIcfiR69xpw-rq3vmmT6bHKqP2gyoICtuzdoZ68g/s400/housing+development.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He shrugs and laughs. I'm not sure I understood what he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Where do you live?'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'In Dwarskersbos.' <br />He points forward, the next little town coming up to meet us. They have a caravan park there. I spent a New Years as a teenager there, once.</span><span lang="EN-US">'Do you want to leave South Africa?'</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Leave? Leave here?' 'Yes.' </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'No. No. No other country would want me.'<br />
I nod. He drives. The Bantam is fast. </div>
<span lang="EN-US">'I keep to myself. I don't want any partners in the business, I don't open it up. I just take the work that comes along. It's enough to keep me busy. So I'm okay.' </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">I nod.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'But my wife isn't so happy. She's a psychologist for the schools around here. The browns and blacks don't want to work. They make it difficult for her to do her job, to love her job and to do it well.'</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'My girlfriend is a teacher,' I say, 'she just started at a government school, not far from here. She's been there three months and still has no contract and has not been paid her full salary.' </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nods. We drive. Its a very short distance. In no time he's slowing. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
*</div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">A
little later I'm sitting on the side of the same road, in a bit of shade while
I write these notes. I'm thinking. The dynamics of hitching are endlessly
mesmerising. There's the initial
awkwardness, as the beginning of any time with a stranger, but that time is far
less, over much more quickly, because we, the hiker and driver, are already
complicit. We've both already made a
commitment. The commitment isn't to
journey together, to simply cover ground together, it's to share together. This is the unspoken agreement: We will talk, and we will go where that talk
takes us. A hike is a gift, an
unpredictable adventure. A sharing.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Behind
me there's a house with an aviary in the back garden, against the other side of the fence I'm
sitting against. In the heat, the dry,
West Coast heat, there's all manner of jungle-bird sound. That's what I mean. Nothing is expected, nothing is
predictable. People are the same. They'll tell you what you expected them to
say, what you would have guessed they'd tell you, but in the moment it'll get
you every time. The telling is
real. The telling is a feeling. It flows.
It fills, and the detail is incredible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
look out at the road. This is officially
the furthest I've travelled on this particular route. Ahead of me is the unknown. I know I'm going up to the border. The jungle birds sing. The heat is hot. I'm glad I'm not sitting in my box. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-80292308862244657572030-12-28T07:24:00.000+02:002012-11-27T08:01:14.768+02:00#4: Dwarskersbos to Grafwater<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'd been walking for a time, perhaps twenty
minutes, when an eight ton TATA diesel came roaring up behind me, hooting and
flashing its hazards, and then pulled up right close. My first truck lift! I ran in the heat, excited at the idea of
climbing up high and riding like a king.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Entering the cab I was confronted with
Brian, a grinning, fit animal in his mid to late forties. He wore a white, baggy vest over a pair of
comfortable blue shorts,<i> takkies</i> on his feet, a chunky gold ring on his finger
and a chunky gold chain on his chest, his olive skin glowing. He said a genuine hello,
happy to share this hot day with me, and we got going.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I commented on a long train we
could both see on its way north from Saldanha.
I told him I thought it was one of the longest in the world, these
iron ore trains on their way to Sishen, wherever that is. Brian said he didn't know, but was happy to
learn. I told him about the book and
asked about his views on the country, would he be staying or going, what did he
think? He frowned and said this is the best place in the
world. He pointed a muscular finger at
his windscreen, out to the veld and the blazing sun, and said he'd never
leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'There's no disasters here,' he said, 'look
at <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11191105" target="_blank">New Zealand</a>.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">Slowly we began to open up, to figure out
how it was going to be with us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'I started working at fourteen, and since then I've always worked, I'm a working man,' he said. 'I want to
ask questions, and I keep asking 'til I get the answers. And then I ask some more.'<br />
I begin to relax. He's bursting with news for a stranger.<br />
'My first job was back in 1973, in a textile factory, in Cape Town. I earned fourteen rand a week. <i>Fourteen</i>. Times were different back then, it was
Apartheid. A colored man like me had to make his way in the world. I worked my way up, first a <i>handlanger</i>, a errand boy, asking questions and asking questions, until my boss sent me on a course, and then I became a knitting technician.'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'A knitting technician?' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Ja-ha-ha!' he replies, bouncing in his
chair and loving it, 'you surprised, hey?!'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Yes.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'I was a technician on the knitting machines, keeping them running
smoothly.' </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz87VrM_K56D8fe7hZyb0PF7SNwSJCOJePhg9w-CXzlnUp1LcDvunG_WFy0_1lIzzbRKpN8e5L-5-aVmEH7GI3Vjgb1vUJX9j50vBdveAMRYAzMlgvi2IX-FbwbGG8ueiuprwPSJTKLs6/s1600/toyota+corolla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz87VrM_K56D8fe7hZyb0PF7SNwSJCOJePhg9w-CXzlnUp1LcDvunG_WFy0_1lIzzbRKpN8e5L-5-aVmEH7GI3Vjgb1vUJX9j50vBdveAMRYAzMlgvi2IX-FbwbGG8ueiuprwPSJTKLs6/s320/toyota+corolla.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">He searches the past, sitting comfortably in his shorts high above his piece of paradise. </span><br />
He tells me about his Toyota Corolla, the first car he ever bought back in '79, a beautiful, shining machine for which he paid R3000, all from his hard earned cash, and which today would cost between fifty or sixty, he reckons.<br />
'A machine like you've never seen, and it was mine.'<br />
He met his wife at
around that time. He
was the best man at his friend's wedding, and there, on the wedding day, he looked
across to the bridesmaids, and discovered his soul mate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Ons was <i>smoorverlief</i>. We were sweetly in love, passionately.' He starts to talk about
his wife, and his family, and his eyes shine even brighter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'We got married one month after my eighteenth birthday, one month, and then, when I was nineteen, at that time I was earning R1500 a
week, I bought myself a three bedroomed house, with hot and
cold water, and this was in Apartheid.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">He says it again, feeling it. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'We got a son and a daughter, and then another daughter. And then, in '83, '84, textiles changed. It was the start of the Chinese invasion. I tell you, I could see it before everyone else. Suddenly you got clothes cheap, much cheaper than we can make it. The bosses is whispering together, there's less and less orders coming through the machines. I got out early. I felt like a bird. I had been caged for eleven years and suddenly I was free.' </span><br />
'The factory,' he says, 'the rountine, it had fucked me up, ja. It gave me a <i>kuk</i> picture, a <i>wrong</i> picture of life. Colours was wrong in there, taste was wrong, I didn't know what was fresh air anymore.'<br />
<span lang="EN-US">He got himself a code 14 license, the kind
needed for trucking, and flexed his wings. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'I'm happy,' he says to me, shorts and vest
and takkies, white teeth and shining, sparkling eyes, 'everyday I see something
new on the roads. I'm free. I've got no one hanging over me. No bells for lunch and tea. I just drive, I take my time.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lFOpqD6nHgbLEn4g-8pSDbDBkgLiXAzkhyphenhyphenVb414E4gn_cwt2JU_RDtccCDyf55kiyfeCLMBQXNMDA9-rDG5Sp_irC8f59eWWt6UcjKVFC_RCdYiWD8xwuu1hN0ZSaYOuopX-oRGZjcqg/s1600/brian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lFOpqD6nHgbLEn4g-8pSDbDBkgLiXAzkhyphenhyphenVb414E4gn_cwt2JU_RDtccCDyf55kiyfeCLMBQXNMDA9-rDG5Sp_irC8f59eWWt6UcjKVFC_RCdYiWD8xwuu1hN0ZSaYOuopX-oRGZjcqg/s320/brian.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">'I start in St Helena Bay in the mornings
where we load up. I carry a load of
<a href="http://archaeology.about.com/od/bcthroughbl/qt/bitumen.htm" target="_blank">bitumen</a>. From there I come through to
Laaiplek, there I have my breakfast
place, there's a spot just by the sea. I stop and eat a vetkoek or maybe cereal, and
then I take a quick walk on the beach, splash my feet, and then I get
going. My boss says I must just drive
safe, and get my load on my time.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He's got the radio on, KFM, golden oldies
swirling through the cab, the truck's fan blasting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'We're fixing the roads all the way from
here up to Springbok. It's a
big contract. I'm with a good company.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He tells me a little of the history of
where he is. </span>What happened was his
bosses, two Muslim brothers, had a father who was the owner of the company, a
fleet of 3 TATA trucks to begin with.
One sad day the father died, and the boys were expected to take
over. They tried, at this point hiring
Brian, and doing their best to service their contracts. But things were tough, the boys were young and
inexperienced, and the demands of trucking and responsibility were heavy for them.<br />
<span lang="EN-US">'I talked to them. I helped them through it. I told them it's about one thing at a time. We must just finish this stretch, this contract, slowly, take it slowly.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">And things began to change. Across the passing of days the boys grew into men, and they became
confident. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'My truck works for about R380 per hour,' he says, changing tack, pulling me into something new, 'ten
hours a day, 5 days a week. That's R3800
per day, R19000 per week, R76000 per month.'<br />
'Now I earn about R16000 per month,
so, of course there's maintenance and diesel costs, and after that a coupla thousand that goes straight to the boss, just off this truck.'<br />
'Now. The bosses are running eight trucks. That's R608 000 a <i>month,</i> over 6 <i>million</i>
a year. How much is a truck?'<br />
I don't know.<br />
'Around R785 000, new, that's without papers
and all that.'<br />
We think about that.<br />
'So?'<br />
'So, what's to stop me getting a loan for R500 000, getting a truck second hand and paying it off in two years?'<br />
'Nothing.'<br />
'Nothing. I'm saving up. I got a deal with my boss that when I buy my truck we go into partnership. Who knows?'<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Our talk changes as we pass Elands Bay, a
place I've never been. He goes back to
family, the whole point really, the reason he's driving his truck and getting
up in the morning. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'We're staying at a self-catering in <a href="http://www.graafwater.co.za/" target="_blank">Graafwater</a>, and it's a bit <i>kuk</i>. Everyday we fix more of the road, and we moving, each day getting farther from home. I used to go home on weekends, but now... it's once a month. How much is it for the diesel home?'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'Wow, I don't know.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'</span>R3000 per trip.'<br />
'Ja. So now I'm staying on the weekends and getting the extra R3000 in the pay packet. But you know what?'<br />
'Uh-ah.'<br />
'We both on Vodacom. They got a special where you can talk for free as
long as it's between midnight and five. So we stay up and talk and talk.' </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We round the lagoon at Lambert's Bay and
then turn away from the coast, now on our way to Clanwilliam, soon to pass
Graafwater. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'I got a grandson, he lives with us at the moment, his Mommy is living with us. This child remembers everything. He knows all the names of the trucks; tipper, front loader, mixer. I take him driving with me and we play cricket and rugby in the garden, our house is in Macasser. I love that boy. <i>Wragtig</i>, he's Grandpa's boy.'</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.goudinispa.co.za/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWnDDd4XSBLdjpEmxTdEzxXGN57fPH3PSwujk0pA7sf8ARK9LGM6JzB1YA0ykS_REAijpCbICjRNef4DkZytHeqRQboEjKF06CT5QjXxdt3UXx0lvBhfgdZIJy_TS9c_5fafWlHmf7O-o/s400/w131185_4518_goudini-spa-holiday-resort_swimming-pool.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US">I ask him about love, how it works, and he tells me about Goudini Spa. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'I took her there last year, in the off season. Us and two other couples, we rented a chalet. How much was the accomodation?'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'How much?'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'R4000, and that's accomodation alone. On top of that I put down another three. I was spoiling her, man. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">We were dancing, swimming, laughing, eating. I was pampering her.'</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">He gives a big, Brian grin. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'She works too, but this is mine (motioning to his truck, his cab). I spoil her. I work for us.' </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">And so what about love?</span><br />
'It has it's ups and downs, it goes up and down, that's what I can say about love. Over 33
years of marriage, four kids, the oldest of them being 33, I can tell you that love goes up and down.' </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We're grinding up a hill, halfway along
there's roadworks and a stop 'n go. This
is Brian's company working here. Everyone around shouts greetings, waving up to him, he's a hero around these parts. He
sticks his head out and starts <i>chaffing</i> the girl manning the stop sign, asking
her if she's tired and telling her to come and sit on Uncle's lap, because
he'll make her more tired. The whole place is laughing. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">He jumps down, lighting a
smoke, chatting with his road family.
I watch, suddenly myself again. I
wonder if he's faithful, I wonder, 33 years, all that time on the road. Of course, it doesn't matter. Love has it's ups and downs and we're all
people and life's a journey. Watching
him I can see that the man is love. And
that in his heart he's still 19, still <i>smoorverlief</i>, still sweetly and
passionately in love, with everything.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-78585748675350796412030-12-27T16:05:00.000+02:002012-11-27T08:02:22.859+02:00#5: Between Grafwater and Clanwilliam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Brian dropped me some way beyond Graafwater,
I'm not sure how far from Clanwilliam. We said goodbye while he readied to tip his load of stone. He'd offered to take me all the way to Clanwilliam and the N7 but I said no thanks, because at that stage I
wanted to walk again, breathe and be free.
I was beginning to discover that hitching like this can be pretty tiring, constantly making mental notes during the conversation, trying to
see. So I was glad to be off on my own,
and I started what ended up being a long walk. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The country around Clanwilliam is famous for its Rooibos, a local herbal bush used as a popular tea. I saw
these now, rows of them in the veld, odd as the bushes are natural and
hardy, like fynbos, and don't seem to belong in rows. The walk was full of idle thinking. I had a tune in my head, Megadeth's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dW79Se3N5QU" target="_blank"><i>The Killing Road</i></a>, and
I kept air-guitaring it over and over as I strolled. The weather at that point was dark and
broody, certainly threatening rain, and in the distance I saw lighting flash on
the plains. I passed workers in the
fields with trucks and wagons and they all waved and shouted and I waved and
shouted back, behind an endless backdrop of bruised sky and rolling, open veld,
flat topped kopjes and finally mountain and escarpment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I reached another stop 'n go and kept going,
past the trucks, sedans and suburban 4 x 4's, happy to stroll and play my endless
tune, leaving those guys behind. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">This place was full of bitumen, raw tar, the steaming smell of it everywhere, melted, rain threatening. I heard a loud engine whine behind
me, louder because of the silence of the empty road, and turned to see a
steam-roller churning up the hill, much faster than I thought was possible. The driver was a man in overalls, a crumpled
hat and a big, white smile. He slowed
next to me and I started to run, first trying to unhitch my backpack and throw
it on, then realising my best bet was just to grab hold and pull. I did and I found myself balancing on a thin
platform next to him with my pack leaning out over the rushing tar, wanting
to pull me in. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Clanwilliam?!' He shouts, sparkling eyes, a pipe in his breast pocket, around fifty years of age, the engine's screaming all the sound in the world.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Yes! Namibia!'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Namibia?!'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Yes!'</span></div>
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'Eersterivier!' he shouts, pointing at his own chest. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Vredenburg!' I shout back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He's with the company too, also staying at Graafwater, one of Brian's men but he's much lower down. A lord among labourers because he can drive the steam-roller, but nowhere near the status of a lorry priest, with his direct line to the heavens, and the bosses. His name is Samson. He drops me in the same way he found me, I just jump off. </span></div>
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An hour later I'm standing in front of a sign that reads
'Cape to Namibia Route, N7' and an arrow pointing left. This is it.
I can feel it, this is tangible.
Above me is the mighty highway upon which commerce and industry roars,
night and day, running growth, production and economy up into the hot lands,
the sour lands, the delta's and the jungles of Africa. It's on this mighty road river that men
travel, owl-eyed and huge with the power their machines wield, with their
solitude and their long, long thinking while the kilometres roll by. This is the artery of the right hand of
Africa, bringing rich blood thudding upwards to her heart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I scramble along a worn footbath beside a deep,
rocky gully, a beautiful sandy cave dwelling that on another day would be
excellent for camping, and finally step over the knee-high barrier onto the N7
herself. I drop my bag, tired after the two hour hike, and take a seat, collecting my barings for a moment. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The road roars. Massive long-haul carriers crush the air as they pass, sucking it right away in their howling slipstream, rocking me back and forth. I see a little guy walking towards me, along this big road going somewhere. He's about sixteen, barefoot, torn shirt and shorts. We talk and he's alive, full of the energy of the road, the twilight, the limitless travel all around. </span><br />
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'Where you going?'</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Klawer. Where you going?'</span></div>
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'Namibia.'</div>
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I give him an apple as he walks away, freer than me, not even a bag with him, no piece of fear. I stand and stick my hand out, once again, and try for the right
expression. It's dusk, so there's a bit of serious on the face, a tinge of worry because it feels dangerous. Sunset on the open road is the witching hour, a time when the eyes play tricks, when some have set their lights and others have not, and a hare
or a buck or a flitting shadow could come darting into the crunching traffic, causing ripped steel and cart-wheeling, end over end crashes and
death. And so I stand, willing
sanctuary, and I watch as mighty truck after mighty truck comes thundering
down, as the sun sets on the first day of the hike. </div>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-20031938747654682992030-12-26T13:03:00.000+02:002012-11-08T19:32:46.459+02:00#6: Clanwilliam to Klawer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Yes, now.'</span><br />
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. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Worsie.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Milton.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We shake. He drives, punching the accelerator with a pair of chipped hiking boots nestled in thick rugby socks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Waantoe gaan jy?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Lambertsbaai. Self?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Namibia.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Ek sal jou op die Wimpy by Klawer aflaai. Daar's baie karre daar, baie Namibiese karre.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Cool. Thanks.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Ek't al baie Namibia toe gery. Luderitz. Windhoek. Walvis. Ondangwa. Ek ken elke dorp in daai land. Elke straat.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Regtig?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Ek't daar gebly. Lorrie gery. Maar hulle is <i>poeste</i>. 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.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Dis nie reg nie.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Ja. Hulle is poeste. Die government. Ek het n vrou daar. Glo jy dit?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I check him out. He's sly, suddenly, or sharp. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'For sure,' I reply.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Sy's 23.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He's about fifty-five. I'm seeing a colored woman, or a black woman, some conquest happy for cash and a way out. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'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.' </span><br />
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.<br />
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'As ek kan sal ek daar bly. Weet jy hoekom?'</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'How come?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'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.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Jy ry lorries daarso?'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Oorals. Namibie, Angola, dis kuk hoor. Dis fokkin warm in Angola. 40 grade, 43 grade, die hutte maak jou sommer mal. Congo, Zimbabwe, Mozambique.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Jusis.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'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.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He drives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Ry is vokkin lekker,' he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It's just about dark now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Waar's jou plaas?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Op die Karoo. Beaufort-Wes se kant.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'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.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Worsie thinks for a second, one second only.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Die beste sal seker wees, gat links Vanrynsdorp in, van daar af Calvinia, dan af Sutherland toe.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Is dit goeie paaie?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Ja. Dis goie paaie. Dis beter om in die aand te ry.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We drive.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'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.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span><br />
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-7476480853891174422030-12-25T19:31:00.000+02:002012-11-23T16:39:12.820+02:00#7: Klawer Turnoff to Springbok<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I stayed at the petrol station for a while, relaxing on the grass, reflecting, taking photos of lights and <span style="font-family: inherit;">watching a guy arc-welding as it got proper dark. I may have used my phone, I may not have. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj222wyqEd11hT0VPhaR_qcZfTvs-ddlZJ116MTlzcUT9McKaVcZ1HS5ZiHKYpSQySMmTS_-yWqn9Az-QlUzpah_rlsv4XPsHvKOL5JbooqtzX5gBDhrqwihQ7Oh4aUtQU62CWbCyTWDhjm/s1600/garage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj222wyqEd11hT0VPhaR_qcZfTvs-ddlZJ116MTlzcUT9McKaVcZ1HS5ZiHKYpSQySMmTS_-yWqn9Az-QlUzpah_rlsv4XPsHvKOL5JbooqtzX5gBDhrqwihQ7Oh4aUtQU62CWbCyTWDhjm/s320/garage.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20px;">At about nine-thirty or ten I got back on the road, walking away from the station as there was another hiker on the open road, a middle-aged, haggard and sad thing. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was beautifully hot and a privilege to stand out in my country's dark.</span></span>Cars passed, and after a time a Renault Clio type car pulled off quite a way before me, about thirty or forty metres towards Klawer, stopped then accelarated and came to rest close to me. I got in. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Chris was a young law student going home to his father's farm in the <a href="http://www.sa-venues.com/attractionsnc/keimoes.php" target="_blank">Keimoes</a> area during a study break before exams. His back seat was piled with dirty washing, everything thrown in. We got to talking. He tried his English on me, me my Afrikaans on him. I told him that my mission was to go up to the border and just stand there, point at the spot that the border is, the actual line, and say 'there, that's the border', before coming home again. I thought that would be enough. He says he isn't going up to the border, he's turning off at <a href="http://www.sa-venues.com/attractionswc/vanrhynsdorp.php" target="_blank">Vanrynsdorp</a> to go through to Keimoes, close to <a href="http://www.upington.co.za/" target="_blank">Upington</a>. I'm not sure exactly what he means, not being familiar with the country, but I say that's grand, I have no time limit and may as well go up that way. I ask him of his knowledge of the Karoo, does he know the route to Ceres via Sutherland, because I'd like to see my girlfriend in Ceres this weekend. He replies that this is the Karoo. I say yes, but it's just the side of it, I want to get right in there. He nods and names a string of towns, trying to answer my questions as best he can, but we're both uncertain, and so we drop it. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'So, what are you going to do with Law?' I say after a silence.<br />'I'd like to work for myself,' he replies, 'I want to stay in <a href="https://www.google.co.za/search?q=stellenbosch&hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=CeObUJfLN8uDhQfn2IHAAQ&ved=0CEEQsAQ&biw=1092&bih=514" target="_blank">Stellenbosch</a>, I like it there. I'll probably stay there my whole life.'<br />I tell him I know what he means, as the other day I arrived in Cape Town after some time on the West Coast, and knew I didn't want to be there. I had to think faster and of more things at the same time than I'd like. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He says he understands. He's grown up on a farm, his father's wine farm on the fringes of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalahari_Desert" target="_blank">Kalahari</a>. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />'How's it going with farming in South Africa at the moment? Does your dad want to stay?'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />'My father works with the new government,' he replies, 'with creating jobs. It's tough. He doesn't get the support he needs. The colored people that live close to us don't want to work, they lazy. We use <a href="http://www.sahistory.org.za/people-south-africa/tswana" target="_blank">Tswana's</a> that come from the North. They work hard. They're the best people. Really, really the best.' </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I visualise what he's saying, trying to see all the angles, give all of them their due. 'I reckon the reason they don't work as hard is because they're local,' I say, 'they don't have to work. They've got houses and families to support them, the guys that come from somewhere else have to work because it's all they got. They can't afford to be lazy.'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />'That's interesting,' he says. 'Ja, I suppose you're right.'</span></span></div>
We rumble along.</div>
'How old are you?' he asks.</div>
'Twenty-nine.'<br />
'I'm nineteen.'
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I watch him as we're talking. He's big, your classic <a href="http://roelofvanwyk.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Afrikaner</a> country boy. Young, but fully a man, fully used to being in charge of himself and the things he owns. The way he drives, he understands his power over things, his ability to mould and shape things, to stand firm. That's something I've always admired, that self-assured way with things, that way that comes naturally. But he's also more than the stereotype. There's something in the way he answers me. He's trying, stretching himself out to something, wanting to understand more than he's been told he needs to. He wants to be better. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Do you watch cricket?' I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja, ja. For sure.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What do you think of Graeme Smith?'<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'He's arrogant,' he says, 'he talks big, but then he chokes.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'I like him,' I reply.</span><br />'Really?'<o:p></o:p></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.
I worked on a commercial with him once.
I was supposed to look after him, offer him water, food, that kind of stuff. He told me not to bother with
him, he knows I'm busy, I mustn't worry about him. He didn't seem arrogant.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYooAOWNEXZ2FsFOR49ycAQf21cUsypiLi0r9zN4_G-2tK8dP6TUSlTo4LSFU9ptMpXQ-9oc4OZfrZoycd8Oh66aabOzvPp4JBVSdVzr2_RtNo50qW7re_KP_WSRdaZeg8R65_GPMM3r_8/s1600/Graeme+Smith.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYooAOWNEXZ2FsFOR49ycAQf21cUsypiLi0r9zN4_G-2tK8dP6TUSlTo4LSFU9ptMpXQ-9oc4OZfrZoycd8Oh66aabOzvPp4JBVSdVzr2_RtNo50qW7re_KP_WSRdaZeg8R65_GPMM3r_8/s1600/Graeme+Smith.png" /></span></a></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Okay.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I think he's given the team a lot,' I
continue, 'he became captain when he was twenty-two. I think he put his career on hold to become
captain. He did too much too fast. Now he's a fucking good captain, but he's
struggling in his head. I hope he can
sort things out, because he deserves it.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Chris himself doesn't swear. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What sort of commercials do you work on?' he
asks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'All sorts,' I say, 'but I don't really do
it anymore.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I've met Jared Leto, and Nic Cage,' he
tells me. 'You know the movie Lord of
War?'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Yes.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'They shot on a farm close to us. Nic Cage came driving up in this big, fancy 4 x 4 like he was somebody, speeding on the farm, and gets out and he's
surrounded by body guards and goes into the house, never talking to
anyone. Jared Leto was much nicer. He came fishing with my friends and me at the
river. He just bought his bodyguard with
him.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I wonder what it's like,' I say, 'being
recognised pretty much anywhere you go, anywhere in the world. I wonder what that's like.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">The country-side passes. The dark desert. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What is it to you to be a South African?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">He thinks for a second, mustering all his
years for the answer. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I'm irritated that I'm always
penalised for something I didn't do,' he begins, 'I mean, that's the thing that
might get me to emigrate. All this
<a href="http://www.hsrc.ac.za/HSRC_Review_Article-205.phtml" target="_blank">affirmative action</a>. That's racist, not to get a job because of what someone did
way back when. I mean, thirty percent of
South Africans didn't know what was happening, they didn't agree with it. All
the law that I learn, it's around how the law has changed, and how me as a
white man must pay.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">He thinks some more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'South Africa, for me, is braaing, long
evenings. My culture is Afrikaans, being
with my people. We like to drink, braai,
play rugby.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'So you think you're going to have problems
getting a job?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Yes.
Definitely. They tell us
directly. If you're a man and white
don't even bother filling in the application.
One attorney told me, it was at a law weekend, people will promise you
certain things, but they won't be able to deliver, because they have quotas to
fill. They'll say to you you'll get a
car, and a cellphone, a good job, but they can't give it. And there's no bursaries for whites.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'For me,' I say, 'what I think, generally,
is I got more because I was white. My
education, generally, was better, my house, generally, was better. We didn't have much money when I was growing
up, but even if we didn't have much money, I could learn. I had good teachers. There were only 25, not 40 people in the
class. I was privileged because I was
white. I wasn't part of apartheid, but I
still benefited. My philosophy is I must make work for myself. But it does affect me.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I think some more. He waits.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'If I do a funding application,' I say, 'I
have to make part of it a social upliftment thing. I did a project with a young black guy from
the township. He's got his own theatre company, they rehearse every day, but
they didn't know what they're doing, they didn't know how to do it right, but they
have passion. He's working hard, and he
wants to learn. He can't speak English well, he doesn't know how to learn like I know, because my whole life has been
like that. So I worked with him, and it felt right. If I don't do that, I may as well be
somewhere else.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' he says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'The best guy,' I say, 'should get the job
so that the job is done the best. But
there is space to somehow make things more equal. The only difference between the old and the new
government is that the old one was only looking after twenty percent of the
population, the new one is trying to look after everyone.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'But...' he struggles, 'Julius Malema.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Yes,' I say, 'he is a poes.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'He influences so many people to be
negative in our country. Why is he
there? He gets away with
everything. He shouldn't be allowed to
be there. And he's one of many.
<a href="http://futurechallenges.org/local/whats-the-future-of-africas-unemployed-youth/" target="_blank">Unemployment</a>. There's so much
opportunity, just look at the land, but there isn't the space to create
jobs. The government doesn't allow us to
work, we can't just get on with it and work, there's too much red tape, too
much 'rights'.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'The ANC's men were soldiers,' I say, 'and
now that they have what they were fighting for, it turns out that those
soldiers aren't necessarily governors.
The fight's over and now we see that some of then weren't in it for
freedom, they were in it for power.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAYxJ0e1Mu1nGWZq7-XcLZVehmrw3GE3ptdo7JoYvTXCdgRE0Lg7u7uh6HaI_4b0rkP76DiKi8pyOkyD_rsA5iWwGUHiKMXbLwo0ke2KwMaXDgG-riwZ3Rs2ka3W_5AyMoO48L3fNO023/s1600/julius-malema1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAYxJ0e1Mu1nGWZq7-XcLZVehmrw3GE3ptdo7JoYvTXCdgRE0Lg7u7uh6HaI_4b0rkP76DiKi8pyOkyD_rsA5iWwGUHiKMXbLwo0ke2KwMaXDgG-riwZ3Rs2ka3W_5AyMoO48L3fNO023/s320/julius-malema1.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Wouldn't it be great,' I say, 'if someone
just removed Malema, anyone who was just after power and was happy to destroy
rather than build, wouldn't it be great if we could somehow just force everyone
to act justly? But then, that's the
opposite of democracy.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'But what gets me,' says Chris, 'is the
people on the ground level, they're let down by their leaders, abandoned, but
they still vote for them. If you hit a
monkey with a stick he's not going to come back to you.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We hear a strange sound in the car, some
kind of flapping, or something. Chris
looks around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Is it anything you have?' he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'No, I don't think so.' I'm craning round
too, trying to see. 'It doesn't sound
mechanical.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We sit back, quiet as he drives. It doesn't sound mechanical. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'<a href="https://www.google.co.za/search?q=helen+zille&oq=helen+zille&sugexp=chrome,mod=0&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#q=helen+zille&hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&prmd=imvnsuo&source=univ&tbm=nws&tbo=u&sa=X&ei=YO2cUITCGIHBhAfB9oDYDQ&ved=0CEUQqAI&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_qf.&fp=d476a137829e9c8c&bpcl=38093640&biw=1092&bih=514" target="_blank">Helen Zille</a> hits the nail on the head,' he
says, suddenly. 'People don't have food,
but the politicians are flying around in private jets? I want people to do things that make sense,
make opportunities for themselves, things that make sense. The government is not creating these
opportunities.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I was doing some research once,' I say, 'I
went to the civic centre in Cape Town and sat in on a ward councillor's meeting.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Okay.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'There were about five different languages
being spoken, and it was amazing how everyone worked together. There was a guy in charge who kept the
meeting on track. Whenever it went off,
say someone from the ANC was attacking one of the other parties, he'd come in
and say, come now. Let's stay on the
topic. We're not here to attack each other.
These people don't have toilets. What are we going to do about it? And everyone accepted that, got together and
moved forward.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' says Chris, excited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Everyone was working together, it was
nothing like the newspapers. Government
is full of good, normal people, working together and getting things done. TV and newspapers distort things, a lot.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I'm going to pull off,' he says, 'I want
to know what's making that sound.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We stop on the side of the highway in the
dark, walk in the fresh, night, desert air, and have a look through the back,
finding nothing. We drive. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'So, how come you're going home?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'To study, it's exams.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Do you stay in a koshuis?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What's it like?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Lekker.
Very lekker. Everything is nice.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'And initiation?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' he says, 'we do that. They don't <i><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=moer" target="_blank">moer</a></i> the guys, but there are
traditions. Our hostel was built for
guys coming from the army, so we have lots of army traditions. It's good. When you're in matric you think you're a big
shot. We get guys with these big
attitudes, first team boys from the big schools, Paarl Gym, Paarl Boys. Then they break you down and you don't feel
so good about yourself, and you all pull together. We do it.
We don't want guys there who don't want to take part. I wouldn't do it
any other way.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I agree,' I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'If you keep it firm and fair, it's
positive,' he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'It's when it becomes cruel,' I say, 'then
it becomes ridiculous. I read <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/691782.Rainbow_Warrior" target="_blank">Rainbow Warrior</a>, Francois Pienaar's book. He said he also believes in it, but it gets
out of hand. When he was initiated into
the Transvaal team he had to get a smack on the ass from each player, but some
of them just used it as an excuse to hurt him, to really fuck him up, rather
than just do the ceremony. There's a
line, basically, where it becomes something else. Guys start using the ceremony
for something else.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Did you stay in res?' he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Yes,' I reply, 'College House, at
UCT. But I didn't have spirit. I didn't really want to be there. It was just a place for me to live, I wasn't
there to be a part of something. If I
think back, though, perhaps I would have liked to be more involved.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We're quiet. He's too polite to judge. A rabbit streaks across the road. The engine hums. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I've done a lot of hiking,' I say, 'It's
crazy. You have the best
conversations. It's always surreal, in a
car with a stranger. It's surreal to
think it, but it's not that surreal when you're there, and everything's
real. I've been thinking of doing this
for a long time, saying to people that I've got to write this book, I've got to
write this book, but I've kept putting it off.
This week, finally, I said, just go, just go, see what happens, let it
build from there.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'When I was in matric,' he says, 'one day
we decided to drive to the sea for the weekend, me and my friends from my
school. My parents still don't know
about it. We packed in a case of brandy,
just a shirt and one pants each, and slept on the beach. We met these great people, we had no money,
just bought brandy and petrol.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' I say, 'once I hitched to Grahamstown
with R2,50 in my pocket. I had been
going for about 36 hours, I was hungry, tired, pissed off, man. I was walking out of PE, I just had my hand
out while I was walking, not even caring if anyone stopped, the roadside was
rocky, walking sucked. A truck stopped
far ahead of me, but I thought it wasn't for me, so I just kept walking. When I finally got there the guy said get
in. He tells me he can see I'm hungry,
so he gives me this curry he bought somewhere, still hot, not even opened. It was the best curry I've ever had. So good. Those moments only happen when you get out of
your normal life.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What color people pick you up?' he asks,
'is it mostly whites?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I don't know. I don't know the percentages. Probably mostly white, but all kinds,
actually. Color doesn't really matter.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I've been thinking about it lately,' I
say, 'I am a racist.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Really?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.
I judge people according to their skin color. I have to admit it to go forward.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvg13BMEMdYL3xxJr5AqHQh2BtExH-eSJBbkNLfv0x7cqKpy2CVHY8YpxWENq_gszvUZFsk1V_4kDhY13g57_II2UeiTHa2ohTGLScdwa_gjQGuDKXQl5Q74DHTVLxSepH5MpR_ThRGHG/s1600/south-africa-flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvg13BMEMdYL3xxJr5AqHQh2BtExH-eSJBbkNLfv0x7cqKpy2CVHY8YpxWENq_gszvUZFsk1V_4kDhY13g57_II2UeiTHa2ohTGLScdwa_gjQGuDKXQl5Q74DHTVLxSepH5MpR_ThRGHG/s320/south-africa-flag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Okay,' he says.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">'My friend was telling me this story the
other day. He was at a trance party and
there was a dam there. So he and some
other guys are all in this boat on the dam, rowing around drinking with
different people around, everyone having fun, getting drunk and all that. He says they came upon a black guy in the
middle of the dam on a lilo, and the lilo's sinking. Wait, wait, wait, I say, why do you have to
say he's a black guy? What's the point
of that? He gets what I'm saying, but
tells me he does have a point, he's not being racist. Black guys generally can't swim, he says, so
he's saying that he thought the guy might be in trouble, because he probably
can't swim. I say that's kuk. He says it's not. It's true.
I say that's kuk, because, if he <i>hadn't</i> told me he was black, and
had just said the guy looked like he couldn't swim, it would have been the
same. He thinks I've made a good point,
but then he says, yes, the meaning of what he's saying would be the same, but
would it still be honest?'</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We both think about that. Is it right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'So, I'm saying,' I continue, 'color
doesn't matter. It's got nothing to do
with reality. What
matters is that <i>I'm</i> a racist, it's in me. So,
if <i>I </i>think it matters, and if I want, <i>I've</i> got to change.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' he says. 'Ja.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We both go quiet. The dark.
The speeding car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What movies do you like?' I ask him on
impulse, not comfortable to sit in silence.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ah... Black Swan', he says. 'Most people said it's stupid, and if I hear
people say it's stupid, then I watch it.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What did you think?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Jaaaaaa... I don't know. It was good, it was good. But I like Shutter Island more. That was hectic.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Inception is quite similar,' I say, 'I
love all that director's movies.
Christopher Nolan. He also did The Prestige.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,that was flipping good. Which one was that?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'The one where he's a magician, he builds
that machine, that makes new men?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Oh, yes, yes! Shit, that was intense.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Every night,' I say, 'he doesn't know if
he's about to die, or kill. And then the
twins. Fuck, it was insane!'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.
It was mad.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We drive.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Shit!' says Chris, suddenly, looking all
around the road in the dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'What?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Did you see a sign, for Vanrynsdorp?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'No,' I say, 'I don't think so.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Shit,' he says, 'I think I missed my
turn. Are you sure?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I'm pretty sure. I haven't seen any big signs yet.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">He looks at his odometer. He knows he's gone too far. We must have.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ag, so what,' he says, 'I'll just go by
<a href="https://www.google.co.za/search?q=springbok+town&hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&prmd=imvns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=cuqbUNnsDISJhQf55oD4CQ&ved=0CAoQ_AUoAQ&biw=1092&bih=514" target="_blank">Springbok</a>. I'm going to take you your
way now. Through Springbok, Pofadder,
all the way to close to Upington.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Cool,' I say, I'm enjoying the talk. We drive.
It's after 11 now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'When did you leave Stellenbosch?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'About quarter to five.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Long silence. Long, long silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5w5EFOmGPO_AkzBtyXfo4TNZwqEDd9wsqt-t8K-0hvCSkXjEzFj6NlxHg8fObZRFJIfhMaRBqRXnYWX7M-9mDAW66ixXtCJjmvhaiZrEo6kMvVICxIrKdgOXuS10LTNmdz9DIKEbwaI-/s1600/moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5w5EFOmGPO_AkzBtyXfo4TNZwqEDd9wsqt-t8K-0hvCSkXjEzFj6NlxHg8fObZRFJIfhMaRBqRXnYWX7M-9mDAW66ixXtCJjmvhaiZrEo6kMvVICxIrKdgOXuS10LTNmdz9DIKEbwaI-/s320/moon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I dont want to be racist,' says Chris, 'as
you say, it's just a human thing, but, working with 3000 people, trying to keep
them all happy, I get frustrated. I have
the opposite personality as my Dad. He's
good with them, but I get too frustrated.
You feel like you're creating this opportunity for somebody, and a lot
of times they're letting you down.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Does your dad know the language?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Did he grow up there?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'No,' he replies, 'he spoke Zulu where he
grew up, in Natal. I was born here. He's eccentric. He's busy with nature conservation.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Okay,' I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'We didn't get on while I was at school,'
he says, 'but it's much better now.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Like how?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="mailto:'I@m">'</a>I'm just getting
a bit older, he's respecting my opinion.
In the past, if I say it's blue he'll say it's light blue. But me and my mom was tight since I was
little-little.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja,' I say, 'my dad and I also didn't get
on. But since I was 26 or so, it's a lot
better.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Our personalities are totally different,'
says Chris, 'he paints.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'The problem I have,' I say, 'is we're so
similar.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Oh, ja, that too,' he laughs. 'There's a lot of things I get pissed off
with, and then, before I know it I'm doing it myself.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Ja, fuck,' I say, 'for me its weird. My arm is just like my fathers. If I look at
my arm, I feel like I'm young looking at my dad's arm. And he's got this weird way of standing while
he's cooking, and I used to think, what a weirdo, but now that I'm older I find
I'm doing it myself. Because it's
comfortable, I think because we're built pretty much the same.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I always know who's walking in the house,'
he says, 'you learn the footsteps of somebody, like the way they walk. And, if I walk I sound exactly the same as my
father.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We both laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'Why did you decide to do law?' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'I decided I was going to do it when I was
in grade eight. I like it. I don't like injustice. I know it sounds stupid, but I want to make a
difference.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I look out the window, and tell him I
haven't been up to this part of the country, ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">His phone rings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">'It's my dad,' he says, and answers. 'Hallo... Ja. Pa... als is reg. Ek het verby Vanrynsdorp gery, perongeluk... Ek gaan nou deur Springbok... Nee, ek het n hitch-hiker opgetel, n Engelse ou. Ons praat lekker hierso. Nee, ons het gesels toe ry ek verby...'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I watch him as he's talking. He's got deep roots in this country, he cares
about things, he's going to make a life for himself. I think he won't give up until he creates a life for
himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-46932890450513778902030-12-24T16:38:00.000+02:002012-12-13T00:24:37.384+02:00Springbok - The City of Lights<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US">I left Christo at a petrol station,
suddenly realizing that I needed to move on, that I needed new experiences, now.
I walked into <a href="https://maps.google.co.za/maps/ms?msid=216449612824576654448.0004cf238c2431e21de18&msa=0" target="_blank">Springbok</a>, a town I’d never been to but heard about many
times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The place was quiet. Wide streets.
So many lanes, houses, histories, bathed in orange desert light. I saw a
monument to the Boers, a kopje dressed up in strings of white shining bulbs,
fenced off and sacred to someone. I saw the high school, the rugby field, empty
with its two sets of poles on either side, ready.
I kept walking. By then my feet
were sore, I hadn't walked this far in ages but it didn’t matter and I kept walking. <br />
I passed a police station and saw signs saying detectives work here and I
wondered about the particular face of crime here, the sights and sounds of this
town’s violence. I saw an empty <a href="http://www.shoprite.co.za/" target="_blank">Shoprite</a>. It’s massive sign was red in the
night across an empty parking lot. I was nearly overcome with the idea of
daily life happening here in this town far away, of people living lives here like everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpkXcX_q1u75dM7PDSKlZmMtmEJUeRYwzSbEqYMrjkLPNxuTrWybRtKa15CcpNQ6Ym1bWUsZkdVwE5pMdT0ysptFmFpdG8gyrAuU0BXiRim9ndhkELaUoHj0rea5969LPTtKtKqC0qVyE/s1600/springbok+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpkXcX_q1u75dM7PDSKlZmMtmEJUeRYwzSbEqYMrjkLPNxuTrWybRtKa15CcpNQ6Ym1bWUsZkdVwE5pMdT0ysptFmFpdG8gyrAuU0BXiRim9ndhkELaUoHj0rea5969LPTtKtKqC0qVyE/s1600/springbok+1.jpg" /></a><br />
<span lang="EN-US">The night was warm and endless, it
stretched up to the stars. There was
space to walk, and dream. I saw a restaurant
closing. I peered in through the window and saw the staff closing up, the woman
and the man and the other man, two of them a couple and one out on his own, and then I saw a group of
foreign students drunk stumbling out of a red car, a city of lights was Springbok.
These were places I’d never seen, places I was passing by and now knew in some way,
had touched in some way. I kept journeying, kept walking, now thinking of
finding some clearing in the bush to sleep, for the first time tired and coming down
from the high of being free. The town
unfolded and spread and passed by, rows of bright
lights greeting me as the blocks and metres and miles fell away. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRn-MlumYgQcAbTzD4Xi9Mm7JZ5wVDeS0joabyedaj0S3p7tBiDos45CjbeGK_GJEL4NOBbxvzZF88qFuyJGmT-uiffjAfG6sfroFfJGI-pQVafIULITaDQPwCEq_ASVIaBl_EgajiH_C/s1600/springbok+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRn-MlumYgQcAbTzD4Xi9Mm7JZ5wVDeS0joabyedaj0S3p7tBiDos45CjbeGK_GJEL4NOBbxvzZF88qFuyJGmT-uiffjAfG6sfroFfJGI-pQVafIULITaDQPwCEq_ASVIaBl_EgajiH_C/s1600/springbok+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Soon the town itself was past and I was
travelling through the outskirts, a valley with homes stretching up onto its
slopes, rolling out into the desert, this town clinging on. </span>The bush out there was calling, safe, just as long as I could slip from the road
unnoticed and find a spot hidden from the eyes of all men. The moon was bright, filling this valley and
this town with a silver, cascading light, invisible but for walls glowing, scattered glass sparkling and for the dark sweep of the road curving
away.When the time was right I cut off it,
walking hard in the bush until the road was gone then lighting my torch. I was looking for
a likely open patch of sand, a spot that was as flat as possible, as smooth and
as hidden as possible. I kept finding
something, a clearing, an open stretch, a lake of sand between two bushes and a
jutting rock which would serve well as a windbreak should it be needed in the
still, warm night. But each had something wrong with it, always the never-ending
bush promised something better, the next one may just be better. I marked the good ones in my mind, in case I’d
come back, and kept going forward. My torch lit a skeleton in the ground, I marveled
at it. I felt the sand, smelt it and
smelt the air. I realized that the spot that
was the right one had already been passed by and that I should go back. I searched and re-searched the spots I’d gone
over and couldn’t find the special ones, nothing was the same so eventually I
stopped and settled and in that way found the spot that was surely mine, that
would be mine forever, the place I'd sleep.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Next I did what I’ve learned to do when sleeping in the bush - I dug out a tiny little trench, only about two centimetres deep, in which I’d place my ass when the time came. The reason for this is the hip bone and coccyx are sharp and the spines curve above the ass is deep. Without the hole sleep is difficult, nearly impossible unless truly exhausted, with it the ground can become as sweet and welcoming as a <a href="http://www.sealy.co.za/" target="_blank">Sealy Posturepedic</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I spread my sleeping bag and put my backpack where usually a pillow would be, then stepped in and said goodnight to everything. Inside my bag (well, half in and half out as the air was still hot) I listened to the night and looked out at the stars. My heart swelled to the thought that I could be sleeping in the earth of my country and of the world in a state of freedom such as this, with no thing to be holding me and telling me what or anything. Suddenly, I slept.</span></div>
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I woke as quickly. The bright moon, nearly full, had shifted hand spans in the sky. I slept and woke, slept and woke, turning and lying
and sighing with pleasure at the hold of the ground, at the eye of the moon slowly wheeling. Then I woke and it was quiet. The crickets had gone. It was dark. The moon was down. The night was cool and
the stars were ablaze. There is nothing
like it. In my half sleep it was clear that the planets and the earth and the
creatures in it are connected, a huge and
wonderful poetry none can fully grasp but all can feel pulsing in their guts,
swimming with the textures of the moons craters, of the bush, the spiders web, overthrown with the soil and smell of the raw, orange earth,
of lichen painted rock, of endless plains and deep water
welling upward out onto sand. I
slept, and woke, and slept, ideas and visions running through me.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">17/03/2011<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">7am</span></div>
<br />
Feeling a bit cranky this morning. Slept okay, possibly the best sleep on the ground I've ever had. Was not bothered by any critters other than mosquitoes. Now I'm bothered by flies. So irritating in an otherwise perfect morning. Put it away. I've brewed myself some tea and I have an apple to start my day. I bought baked beans and two minute noodles before I left for a time like this, out in the bush with a little fire going, but don’t feel like using them. I wasn't hungry last night with all the excitement and I’m not ready for it now. I sit and reflect onto my notebook:<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I plan to find a <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g312646-d2073829-Reviews-Totem_Creek_Spur-Upington_Northern_Cape.html" target="_blank">Spur in Upington</a> and have a drifter breakfast there while charging my phone. </li>
</ul>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>What am I searching for, this morning, I ask myself. What am I searching for on this trip? What is this story to be? What is the South African attitude, perhaps? What can be said about the South African night? Is there anything I can say that would be new? </li>
</ul>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>The country is not the city, I think. The country is safe, it’s predictable, it’s known. The country is open and quiet. There is time in the country to be natural. In the city it’s different. In the city to be human in the way that the country reveals is possible is not possible. It’s too noisy. But life can still be enjoyed a lot. Nothing talks back in the country. The rocks and the earth don't talk back. Neither the crickets or the swallows. Finches. And other critters.</li>
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<li><span lang="EN-US">The key is the border, I realize. The key to this whole story is the border. The border is the goal, everything is ordered around that. I want to go to the border. Therefore, the story as it stands is at a juncture. Will I go up to the Upington Border post, where it is quiet, or must I, do I need to see the main, industrial lifeline post on the N7? Do I want to be in the Kalahari, or see the biggest face of industry? I have already walked out of town, I think the N7 border would mean walking back into town. </span>What does the story require? What does God require of me? I feel like I should see everything. This is where a map would really come in handy. A map would change this story completely. Right now I rely on strangers for direction. </li>
</ul>
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<span lang="EN-US">I meditate on it, reaching for the answer in the depths. Last night Chris told me I must see the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=19GiAHP_0NA" target="_blank">Augrabies Falls</a>, an incredible view of rushing water across bone dry rock, which would logically mean taking the Upington border. </span>I decide to base my decision on trucks. I’ll stay on this road going to Upington past Augrabies because trucks are going up this road too, the border is in this direction too, and ultimately it’s the border that’s important, not which border. I’m in search of the Border. Border toe. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VHWUcbxEo7at-GjAkOI4ZukLMoQGrUQTE1keVZUIInXCbObeiO8hmSTUc5KEk2MPDnui-9jtOktwp1ThJ_rugWfvjFddCOS_Wv7vmF6OQGQrw9LAMcCy5WZo6RF39TEAFgG8r-RyTGEG/s1600/waking+springbok.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VHWUcbxEo7at-GjAkOI4ZukLMoQGrUQTE1keVZUIInXCbObeiO8hmSTUc5KEk2MPDnui-9jtOktwp1ThJ_rugWfvjFddCOS_Wv7vmF6OQGQrw9LAMcCy5WZo6RF39TEAFgG8r-RyTGEG/s320/waking+springbok.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-41230662426147064992030-12-23T00:23:00.000+02:002012-12-30T23:08:59.180+02:00# 8: Springbok to Aggenuys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I walked down to the road from my camp site
and stood not long at all. A beautiful
lorry, an IM9 with the number 132 signed above the windscreen on the passenger
side slid to a massive, smooth and silent halt just next to me. Jesus the thing had power, and grace, and
mod-cons. Inside all was soft, buffered
and air conditioned. A little man was
waiting for me up there and in there, a man wearing rugby shorts, rugby socks,
sturdy boots on his little legs, copper bracelets on the wrist and a <i>snor</i> to be
proud of. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He started yabbering, flailing his arms, snapping his fingers and tipping his smoke as he lay it all down for me. </span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">‘<i>Ek’s oppie pad Aggenuys toe</i>,’ he says, 'I'm going to Aggenuys. /From there I'm going to Upington to offload, and from there, who knows?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I learn that his friend is driving the
lorry behind, they’re in convoy, because that was his lorry in the past, and
there’s no way he’s going to let a <a href="http://capetownnews.co.za/2007/12/12/fuck-off-you-bloody-kaffir-the-white-racist-bitch-said/" target="_blank">kaffir</a> drive his lorry, no way. Kaffirs
can’t look after their lorries, he tells me, and illustrates this with a prime
example: His friend bought a new fleet and he was the only white driver among
them. Within six months all the rest of the trucks were in for repairs, but his was still going strong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘<i>Dis vir my n compliment</i>,’ he says, ‘I take that as a compliment. A kaffir can't drive a lorry.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This man tells me that he rides 2000km’s in
two days, every two days. He says that
he left his old lorry behind at 136 000km’s and that it took him only six
months to do that. He tells me that the
current one is already on 4899. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Do you talk to your friend behind?’ I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No, only if we stop. I want to get a <a href="http://www.kenwoodwalkietalkie.com/" target="_blank">Kenwood walkie talkie</a>. I can get it for R5000 and then we could chat.’
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He tells me about the heat:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘These valleys get hot,’ he says, ‘they get
fuckin hot. Last week I was riding here and it was 45</span>°<span lang="EN-US">. You
can’t drive like that, my friend, not anything more than 50 k’s an hour. At 60
your wheels will burst. Although, okay.
If you’re empty you can go a bit faster, but with a load, with 35 ton,
then you fucked - <i>Dans jy fucked</i>.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">‘<i>Dis nou my tweede vrag</i>,’ he says, ‘this
is my second load. First I went to
Saldanha, and from there to Aggenuys. I
went from Black Rock to Saldanha. Do you
know Black Rock?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">‘No. Where’s that?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It’s close to
<a href="https://www.google.co.za/search?q=Hotazel&hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&tbo=u&tbm=isch&source=univ&sa=X&ei=t7THULDtNuid0AXRroDwCA&ved=0CEQQsAQ&biw=1366&bih=643" target="_blank">Hotazel</a>. You know that place? There they mine the black rock, the
manganese.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Have you had
a tyre burst on you?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He chuckles. ‘<i>My maat -</i> my friend. I’ve had many. But I look after my stuff carefully. Not like the kaffirs.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘What is it
with the kaffirs? What’s the problem there?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Okay, I’ll tell you a story. The one day my boss phones me and he says, ‘my
God, Hertlas, you must help this guy. This
guy drives and he doesn’t even check his wheels.’ </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">'In other words they just ornaments,’ says
Hertlas. ‘I mean, you can <i>mos</i> see when there’s <i>kak</i> and then you pull off? That’s why I
say kaffirs… no, Jesus, I’m very anti-kaffir.
I hate the fuckers. That’s one
thing that God did just to perplex us <i>boers</i>.’
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘So you’ve never met a good kaffir?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No, my friend, no.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Not once?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No. I like them not. It’s like the Bible says. He’s not crowned, <i>hy’s ongekroon</i>. You understand? It comes from the Bible. Us white
people have crowns. We can think. They can’t fuckin think. They like guppies that skit around in the water,
their heads work like that. Now you ask
him for a nineteen spanner, a thirteen, a twenty and a ten, Jesus he won’t know
what bloody side to go to, up and down and then he just ends up bringing the
whole fuckin tool box. No man!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘How do I get to Ceres through the Karoo?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Well, this is Namakwaland. The Karoo is over
there, Beaufort West world,’ he says, pointing to the east, ‘if you want to go
down through there you should take the N1.
If you want to have a nice little journey around you should go down from
Upington, from there Groblershoop, Prieska, Carnarvon.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You know,’ he says, after a bit, ‘the
other day I picked a lovely girl up.
That girl said to me that she had no idea that South Africa was so
fuckin lovely. She said that in the two
days that she was on the road they saw so fuckin much. They told me they were on their way to Durban
but I said that there’s no fucking way – <i>daar’s
nie n vokken manier nie</i> - that road is bad news. They were on the N2, now I know that road is <i>poes</i> dangerous and for a man and a woman,
no ways, no ways. So I say okay I have a proposal. Ride along with me, because I’m going that
way, but they say that they are actually going to Richards Bay. I am going that way but I’m going the long
way round, so I tell them it’s their choice.
So they say yes, they are just going to ride along with me. And then I organized nice work for both of
them.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Oh.
Wow.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes.
They ended up staying with me, I gave them money, everything, and I’m
not asking for it back my buddy, not a fuck.
I gave it to them and I said, go, do it.
So now she’s working at OK and her boyfriend is at a security firm.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘In Richards Bay?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No. <a href="http://www.stilfontein.co.za/" target="_blank">Stilfontein</a>.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Okay.’
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">‘The guy could find work, but then his father in law got involved. </span>Now, look,
family business is a <i>kak</i> bloody
thing. So his father in law dropped him,
he said he smoked <i>dagga</i>. So I said, why don’t you go for tests? Fuck him! Show that<i> poes</i>! But he didn’t want
to, and in anyway the father in law didn’t want him to get work. They stayed with me for two days, three days,
and then my ex-wife organized them a job. And now the other day he phones me
and tells me things are going well over there, they’ve got a flat and
everything.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘That’s what I do,’ he says, ‘I try to help
people. But then you get those guys that
you’ll never help, they just want to ride along. Many guys give lifts but then they’re looking
for money. I’m not looking for
that. The man upstairs gives me
everything quadruple and double again.
Ah, man, I’ve done it a lot. Take
me as is.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘What about violence,’ I say. ‘You ever
been hijacked? I got a lift with a lorry out of PE once. The driver told me he had a Magnum .45 set up
in his door, pointing at the passenger seat, with a button under the steering
wheel to fire it. He said he’s had his
legs shot out by an AK47 before, so now the bottom of the door is
bulletproofed.’ <o:p></o:p></span>‘Ag <i>kak</i> man,’ says Hertlas. ‘They don’t just shoot, especially if you’ve got a load on. The other day I was riding through Knysna, I was in a Freightliner, no, no, a Kanya, a 480. I’m busy driving and I see, <i>chomma</i>, Jesus here comes a whole pile of shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<span lang="EN-US">A BMW comes up next to me, sitting
next to me, then pulls back again, back behind me. Then later I see a Mercedes Benz, he does the
same. No my bud. I think, ‘I’m carrying a value load here.’ In other words it’s hi-fi’s, DVD’s, that sort
of stuff. So I check this business and I
think Jesus, fuck. Remember I’m not
going to lose my life I’ll drive that car straight off the road. So I phone my boss, the guy’s name is Heino,
and he says to me ‘Hertlas, do it. If
you see that the shit’s going to hit the fan, don’t wait my friend, put foot,
pedal to the metal.’ Because that thing,’ says Hertlas, pointing to the steering wheel, ‘it’s got a tag, in other words it's like a panic button, so if I open it they’ll see I’m in trouble over the
satellite. So I hold it like that. Now I
see the guys are riding behind me, then the Mercedes comes past and rides in
front of me and sinks in in front there, slow.
I hold my speed, puppy, now they see they not going to stop me. So the BMW comes up next to me and shows me
the AK. So I fuckin did this…’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He twists the wheel, the tuck jumps just a
little to the right. Hertlas grins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Jesus man that guy just ran that way,’ he
waves to his right, swatting a fly. ‘By then the cops are already on their way
but I just went. When I hit the BMW it
burst.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He nods.
He’s happy with that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No, <i>chomma</i>, I don’t stop for no one. Jesus.
There’s no way. This truck is
fucking big. That was the only time I’ve
had an experience like that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Outside the country’s changing. It’s always changing. It’s getting drier, there’s more sand and
less plants. Less hills and kopjes
too. The place is flattening out,
starting to burn, all green evaporating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Okay,’ says Hertlas, thinking about it
properly, ‘they did steal my tyres once.
I was sleeping in Vereeniging, in the town! I’m sleeping, it’s the kind of thing you
don’t expect so I left the window open and I was sleeping <i>lekker</i>, just a crack open for some fresh air. I woke at five o’clock, walked around and
checked that everything was <i>lekker</i> on
the lorry. So I go sleep some more. Then I wake up at seven with a huge
headache. <i>God</i>, what now? I check the
lorry. Jesus. They took my <i>trefaf </i>tyres, these first ones behind here, they just took them
off.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Why did you have a headache?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘They take a CD and burn it! They hold it in here so the smoke comes
inside. It gives off a certain chemical that puts you out.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Shit.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I didn’t know about that!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Now you know.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘So now when I sleep I keep the windows
closed.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We drive. Hertlas is tiring. I have to keep looking at him, it causes a
real crick in the neck, but it’s great being up high up here, watching the
world rolling by down there, even if we are going slow. What’s slow? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘The best, for me, is Windhoek. There you can leave your windows wide open
and no one worries you. Even Botswana.
No problems. You will never have one
problem. Okay, it is a kaffir world up
there, but they don’t steal your stuff.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I hear Botswana is very nice?’ I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US">‘It is very nice. But they have the death penalty there. Sorry to say it but if they brought that back
here then you’ll see how quickly things will change. Then there won’t be these fucking farm
murders and that <i>kak</i>.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Hertlas goes quiet for a moment, marshaling
his thoughts. ‘Let me put it like this,’ he says, ‘I’m going to propose this to
you my friend, the end of the world is coming <i>poes</i> quickly. It’s happening now.
All these earthquakes? Those men, what do you call them, <a href="http://www.sienervanrensburg.co.za/index.php" target="_blank">Siener vanRensburg</a>. I don’t know if you know of
him, Siener van Rensburg? Do you
yourself a favour and go to a library and ask for a book called Siener van
Rensburg. They must have it because
Jesus that guy knew everything. The
murders on September 11? His prophecy
was that a bird would fly into a thing, like the building. He was a <i>boer</i>. All this that’s happening now? He predicted it too, the tsunamis and
everything else.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Are you afraid of dying?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘<i>Broer</i>,
no. If I go then I go. If the Lord needs me then I’m gone. I mean,
I’ve only been borrowed. I have to make
a success of the little bit of life that I’ve been given. A person should live well, live <i>lekker</i>.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He checks me out suddenly, bright eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You wouldn’t say I’m 42, hey?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t really know what age he is. I guess
I’d say about 40.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I don’t look like it, hey? I’ll take two jaggerbombs, drive straight
through from Cape Town and when I get home at about ten o’clock, eleven o’clock
then you would think I would go to bed, but no, my buddy, I’ll go party till
three or four o’clock the next morning.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Do you drink Plays, or what?’</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span>‘I drink Bioplus. But I don’t make a habit of it. If you make a habit… The other day I bought one of those Monsters for myself. What I often do is I take a Bioplus and I put it inside a Play, then you’ve got some stamina, my buddy. A friend said to me, ‘now Hertlas, when do you sleep?’<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I said why. </span><br />
He says, ‘because you’ve just driven two days straight without sleep.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I say don’t worry, I’m great. </span></div>
</div>
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</div>
He says, ‘then, so, what do you drink? How do you stay awake?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I drink water, I tell him.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US">We’re nearing the turnoff now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘One day five years ago I picked three
girls up,’ says Hertlas, ‘we rode everywhere together. You meet many people. Today, still, if I stop off in Windhoek then she’ll
come pick me up, one of these girls, doesn’t matter where I am she’ll come in
one of these new Mercedes Benzes. I
phone her, and, let’s say for example I’m in Ovamboland, or Oshakati, then she
gets in that car and comes to fetch me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Have you got children?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja.
Two. But the love I had with my
wife, she and my best friend fucked.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We drive. He’s thinking about it, staring
off into the distance. He does this day
in day out, every day, staring off into the distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I caught her red, red handed. She told me that I would never catch her, so
I said, ‘oh?’ and then I caught her the next weekend <i>sommer</i> in the bed.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We drive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Now we’re just friends. If she wants my help then I help her. You know what?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘What?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It doesn’t help if you hold something
against a person the whole time. You
can’t. The Bible says forgive and
forget. My <i>laaitie</i> I’ve never hit, never.
When my mother comes to us she looks at my lovely children and she says,
‘but Hertlas, how did you raise your children?’ Then I say, “Ma, not like you
did.”’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘If I’m talking to my son then I say
“Boeta, don’t do that.’ Then he doesn’t do it. But if she talks to him then
it’s a whole other story. I don’t know your name?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Milton.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Milton?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I nod. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">‘My name’s Hertlas, but in anyway…’ </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<br />
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</div>
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</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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He proceeds to tell me how he takes his boy
with him on trips and when they’re driving in convoy they pull off, have a <i>dop</i> and sleep, then those guys in the
convoy want to go but Hertlas is still sleeping so he tells his boy to
drive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Daddy, what now?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Just drive my boy.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And he drives. Hertlas says he taught him,
he put him on his lap in just the same way that he taught the girls. He says that the other day at the school his <i>laaitie</i> was having athletics and they
delivered a lorry there but only the lorry and not the driver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘But sir, what now?’ said his son. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I don’t know,’ said the principle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I can drive it,’ said the boy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Can you?’ asked the principle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘My dad drives a lorry
like that.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And so the boy drove the thing back to
behind the building so that they could store it there, and he ended up teaching
the principle how to drive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘He wants to drive lorries one day,’ says
Hertlas, ‘and that’s good, but he must have another trade behind him too. You can’t put all your eggs in one
basket. If he has another trade then he
knows that no one can take him for a <i>poes</i>
and he always has other work. Like welding or panel beating.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I worked for nine years on the railway,’
he says. ‘We had everything, but then I fell hard. But I stood up again. When you’re down is when you’re closest to
God. You go up, then he brings you to
the ground, then it goes well.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I tell him about my friend Denis Fry’s dad
who got cancer in the cheek. He got it because he worked at the railway and he
had to inspect the joints on the carriages in the burning sun, screwing up his
eyes against the glare of the reflecting sun with the sun’s rays burning into
his cheeks over the years, slowly causing a rot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Trains run on wool,’ says Hertlas. ‘And if
it burns, yoy-yoy it stinks worse than a snatch.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I don’t like lying,’ I tell him, at length,
‘because if I’m honest then I’ve got nothing to worry about.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes my friend,’ he agrees wholeheartedly, ‘that
thing always comes out. Always.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It’s about whether you’re hurting someone
else or not,’ I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US">There is the hissing of the road, the
truck, the world. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">He doesn’t take weekends off because he’s home often, home is
on the way to wherever he’s going. The
time he spends at home is not a lot, but it’s quality. He goes dancing and he spends time with his
kids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Luckily we can still travel around in our
own country,’ he says. ‘Some people
can’t do that. Where is that place?’ he
asks, ‘overseas? What is that place’s
name? Israel? Yes, that’s it. That’s it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We contemplate Isreal while the desert
rolls by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘If they could give me a choice then I
would move and go to Swakopmund. It’s
fucking <i>mooi</i>. And if not at Swakopmund then I would go to
live in the Cape. I took my boy there.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He laughs, a cackle. ‘He said <i>jussis pa kom ons trek hierna toe. Hiers girls</i> – Jesus Dad let’s move here,
here’s girls!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes,’ replied Hertlas, ‘yes, give it
time. My grandma lives there, she lives
in Skyeways, that flatblock.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Most of my friends are women,’ Hertals
says, ‘it’s much better. I only have one
<i>chomma</i>, the rest are girls. My <i>laaitie</i>
is just like me. On his facebook and on
his mixit he has 295 girlfriends. He says, ‘no dad we are just friends.’ And they aren’t just normal girls, hey,
they’re models.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘My oldest,’ he tells me, ‘works with her
mother at OK. But they are not OK employees,
she can rep and that. My <i>laaitie</i>
phones me every day. Okay.’ He laughs again, his special laugh for when he’s
thinking of his son, ‘he sms’. Then <i>I</i>
must phone him back. My daughter phones
me too.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He shows me a photo of his daughter. She’s surprisingly sexy. ‘Ag, she’s beautiful,’
I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘She’s 18, turning 19,’ he says. He has photos of her but not his laaitie. His
laaitie, he says, tapping his temple, is safe in his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He was sterilised at the age of 29. Since then, he says, he’s had no problems
with his dick. No prostate problems, no problems urinating. He can get himself fixed but it costs
R2500. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Many drivers like to fuck on the road,’ he
says, ‘they see a girl they want to fuck.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He’s not like that, he says, and I believe
him. He doesn’t like to sommer just
fuck. <br />
‘Everybody says to me,’ he says, ‘you’ve got a cum station in every town.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes I do,’ I reply, ‘but it’s not what you
thinking.’ <br />
He lights a smoke as he explains that he doesn’t like one night stands. He says you don’t know her, so you can’t
enjoy it. ‘This meeting for the first night then you want to fuck, no, it
doesn’t work for me.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He had another girl, he says, and they were
together for eight months to a year. The
one day she phoned him, he says, and said she’s been thinking about him a lot. He said, ‘ja, if you didn’t do what you did,
then we could still be together.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It’s the Lord’s will if I drive,’ says
Hertlas, ‘it’s not mine. If the Lord
says I ride, then I ride.’</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Hertlas drops me at the turnoff to Aggenuys. At first the air was still lovely and cool, but soon it began to evaoporate. </span>Heat remains. I’ve taken to putting two pairs of socks on because my takkies are old and frayed and rubbing my toes up the wrong
way. The extra padding helps. The landscape has changed. Flat, empty fields ringed by faraway
mountains. You can see to tomorrow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
All I'm doing is interpreting how I'm feeling.
That's it. My feeling is
quiet. Reserved. Cautious. But fucking at peace sitting here writing at
the turn-off to Aggenuys. This land is
my land. This is what I've been given.
And the days will wheel by. The land
changed about 60k's out of Springbok.
It'll change again.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Hertlas said that if I don't get another lift he'll take me Upington. I just can't go in with him to the mine. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-16658764332424924672030-12-22T23:00:00.000+02:002013-08-24T07:44:25.209+02:00# 9: Aggenuys to Poffadder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A big, sleek and beautiful looking eighteen
wheeler came rushing up the long, empty road.
It saw me from a ways off and began to slow, two men in the cab, and
they slid in beside me. I reached up,
high, pulling at the handle.<br />
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'No, you can’t <i>mos</i> stand out here like this when it’s all empty,’ said David, a boy from Zululand with a <i>dik</i> Zululand accent sitting there round-backed
and comfortable in a sagging seat, a retro
trilby on his head and Durban board shorts on his legs. George was his brother from another mother, a man with no smiles and an overbite, quiet who shifted
over to the middle so I could sit in the passenger seat, bare feet splayed in
front of him. These guys had spent hours
and hours in this truck together, they’d been everywhere together you could
tell in a glance, a half a moment, they talked exactly the same. I fired off some of the usual questions and nothing hit. These <i>ou</i>s were not Hertlas, there was no racism here. I leaned back and watched the road, endless fields of scruffy tufted bushes, little platoons and colonies and armies of them like little men buried in the sand with only their carrot tops showing and the low, hot, brown and sand-drenched mounds crouching off in the distance. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I saw that this vehicle was not sleek as her first impression told, she
was old, cracked and bumpy but she ran, eating up the tar. </span>The subject of my
appendix came up.<br />
‘No,’ I said, ‘I was in Stellenbosch and started
feeling funny. Just not<i>
lekker</i>, my stomach hurting a little like I needed a shit the whole time, but
nothing would come. Then that night I
started feeling worse. I tried to eat
some yoghurt but it didn’t help and then at about one o’clock I vomited, and by
the next morning I was very un<i>lekker</i>. My
friend said that her brother had had appendicitis in the past and it sounded like
mine was just like his so I decided she must be right
so I drove myself to Groote Schuur where the doctor poked me in the stomach and
immediately said, “you have appendicitis.”
Then they took me to surgery and cut it out.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘But it didn’t end there. I had a cough at the time, so I was lying in
the ward at the hospital and I kept coughing with this new cut in my side with
five stitches. It was fuckin sore and
eventually the thing popped inside and I saw my intestine come bulging out, pushing
up against the skin.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">'Aarghh!' squeals Dave with the
big wheel in his meaty mitts, 'I can't handle pain! If I feel a little bit, a
small anything, I pop a pill.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.kfm.co.za/kinteractive/streaming/streaming.asp" target="_blank">KFM</a> is playing, smooth oldies swirling
through the cab and praising summer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja,’ I say, ‘in Durban I went to … what’s
that? Joe Kool’s? On the beach?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You like <a href="https://www.google.co.za/search?q=joe+kools&hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&tbo=u&tbm=isch&source=univ&sa=X&ei=oy3hUJuCGMSU0QWx-ICgCg&ved=0CGEQsAQ&biw=1366&bih=643#hl=en&newwindow=1&safe=off&tbo=d&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=joe+kools+durban&oq=joe+kools+durban&gs_l=img.3..0i10i24l2.5914.6813.0.6975.7.7.0.0.0.0.268.682.0j1j2.3.0...0.0...1c.1.ttoocV_9mO4&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_qf.&bvm=bv.1355534169,d.d2k&fp=6d63019331d54222&bpcl=40096503&biw=1366&bih=643" target="_blank">Joe Kool’s</a>?’ says Dave, back to
his round-backed self. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No, I don’t go there,’ he says, ‘I don’t
<i>dop</i> anymore.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You don’t?' I say, 'I don’t actually either. What’s your reason?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Hey, too many problems,’ he says, handling
that wheel while George, his silent number two, is thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I said to myself,' continues Dave, 'this drinking of mine, it’s making
a problem, so I left it.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja,’ I add, </span>‘nowadays I go out and I spend twelve rand.
Three lime and waters. My friends
will spend two-fifty, three-hundred.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You only drink lime and waters?’ says Dave, offhand, watching the country and the time roll by, eating it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja.
And I’ll have just as much fun, hey. I just vibe with everyone else,
it’s like I get drunk for free.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I’m two years,’ says George suddenly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Is it?
Do you go to AA or anything?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No,’ he says, ‘I didn’t go.’
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I go to NA.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja,’ shouts Dave from over on the other
side, the radio blaring, the truck roaring and smoking, ‘but that’s bullshit, man.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You think so?!’</span> </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja.
They just want to remind you of drinking alcohol. There you must go in
and say, ja, my name is this and I’m a alcoholic. Why must I always go in and remind myself I’m
a alcoholic? I say it’s over. If I don’t drink I forget about it, why must
I talk about it? You know there where I come from there are people that drink
and they go to AA, then they drink more.
You mustn't remind yourself. You mustn't put it in your face. Also, although it brings you problems, there
is good times in between. You can
remember the good times.’</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">‘For sure,’ I say, ‘but the thing with AA and NA is that that's just the very first little step …’</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">‘Of what?’ demands George. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Saying you an alcoholic and talking about
alcohol,’ I continue. ‘Then there’s a
shitload that comes afterward that‘s got nothing to do with that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ja I know,’ says George. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘…and it’s got everything to do with moving
forward, so, I hear what you saying, and it also sometimes
bothers me, but actually the big reason that I go and say I’m an addict, or I’m
an alcoholic, is for the<i> ou</i> that comes in there that thinks he’s got a problem
and thinks he can’t stop. He checks
these <i>ou</i>s sitting there who all say they've got five years, six years, ten
years saying yes I am also an alcoholic, I’ve also done these things, been
these ways, and I've made it, I’m clean.
That’s really the reason.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘But in AA they have these things,’ says
George, ‘they take money. They just
making money. Like the rehab.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Ah, but rehab’s not AA, hey, that’s
totally different.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You get fucked there in rehabs,’ shouts Dave, ‘my friend went to rehab, for what? I
just say I don’t wanna drink.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I think everyone finds their own way.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Me,’ says George, ‘I had a problem, but I
found my own way. Everyone said, "hey,
he’s going to drink again." Because me, my man, I used to drink a lot. <i>Joh</i>, I drank
a lot. But then I came to the time where
I stopped. I was robbed. I was stabbed. Every single time that I drived I made a fuck
up. I crashed everything. In the township I fucked it up. I done that for a couple of years.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I used to drive with one eye closed so that
there’s only one road,’ I say, ‘cover the one eye with one hand. It’s a fuck up, man. I was also one of those guys who drive better
when I’m drunk.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I was just always drunk,’ says George, up and at 'em.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Talk turns naturally to accidents. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>‘My friend was there,’ George is saying, ‘he
was drinking together in bars. And he had to go and get his wife so we go in
his Isuzu, a big double cab, and we drunk<i> bru</i>.
We coming down this bridge and there’s a robot at the bottom, I don’t
know what happened but we flew into the red robot, the top of the robot. That thing wasn’t like a car anymore, it was
a write off. The car was all over the
robot, fucked up the whole thing, covering the whole thing.’</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Both these guys are laughing now, babbling
over each other to relate more and better news of those days, those good
days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I went down a mountainside there by Ladysmith,’
drawls Dave. ‘Hey bro!’ he says, pointing with his meaty fingers at memories in the air, ‘the
road has got a curve like <i>that</i>. I was going like forty, but I was tired, I
wasn’t even drunk.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Hey, bro!' he says, 'I just went straight through the
barrier, through the stones, through the trees, down the mountain into like a
river almost, into the water. I only had
a broken rib, that’s all. Only a few scratches and a broken rib.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
‘Tell him about the Cressida,’ says George. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘There was about seven people dead,’ says
Dave, ‘the only guy that survived was the drunk guy in the boot.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">‘I was coming on,' he says, 'it was a open road, going like ninety or something. There's a Cressida standing by the stop street so it looks like they waiting for the truck to pass, indicating. I think they going that way, I’m going <i>that</i> way. I can see the old man is looking. He’s looking left, right, left, then he just pulls out straight in front of the truck. <i>Jussis!</i> </span>I don’t know what he was thinking. The car was going slowly, like in second gear or something, half stalling, he was looking up at me, I can see his face, then I wiped him out. It was a family.’</div>
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‘They dogs, man,’ says George, ‘because
they don’t think.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Dave shakes his head, the trilby on top of
it, his board shorts and old t-shirt, his truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘The fucking Cressida went right under the
wheels,’ he says, ‘it got stuck in the trailer.
Heads off. Mince-meat. Only the
guy in the boot. Fuuck!’ </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">He laughs,
shaking his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘And the <i>ou</i>s with the bicycles,’ says
George, ‘you take them off their bike twenty metres off the road.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-67442639808008418502013-01-04T01:36:00.002+02:002013-01-09T16:43:11.167+02:00Pofadder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pofadder,_Northern_Cape" target="_blank">Pofadder</a> is as small as they say. Sandy lots beneath an open sky. Every plot is full of lots of space. Tiny house, big yard, scrawny, wire-thin
fence. Huge fat man that owns the garage-cum-restaurant. Was quite a thing to get
my phone charged. Had to ask him first,
him in his tiny little office, his big bulk.
Predominant color is grades of yellow and brown, splashed with green in
gentle, plant explosions. Sun drenched trees reach out and up, thorny and
twisted. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">I count five windmills, four of them working
in the breeze. Very little traffic
through here. Very little. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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There are 12 cars in this town. 12 cars, 25 locals, and five windmills. There is a petrol pump, B&B and curio
seller. There's a guy in a blue shirt
carrying a clear plastic bottle, and there are stranger's cars passing through,
passing through. There are 20 homes, seven outbuildings and a church, tall and straight.
The church connects this town to heaven. And the plants and trees rise up lush, virile
and green, bursting with deep water. The
windmills are doing their good work.<br />
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That's about all I've got to say. I don't know the people and don't want to explore.<br />
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-74650887863086257952012-09-16T13:43:00.001+02:002012-09-21T08:07:41.656+02:00The Lost Art of Hitchhiking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The more I talk to people about hitchhiking, the more it seems that it has become a lost art. There was a time, in this country and others, where it was an acceptable form of transportation. I think it was somewhere around the end of the nineties where hitching began to fall out of fashion. For me it was a specific ride, a specific memory.</div>
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I was trying to get back to Varsity in Grahamstown, travelling from East London. I found myself in Queenstown at dusk. It was a Sunday and the roads were packed with travellers, all manner of color and luggage strewn on the pavements, all manner of eyes watching for any sign of stopping. I decided that to try and compete with that rabble was suicide, and so walked to a petrol station. I started asking travellers there, banking on the personal approach. I soon scored with a group of three in a dark Citi Golf. We set off. During the ride there was no talking at all, just the slow sunset and a building warmth inside, cold rain refracting orange and white on the windows. Finally we made Grahamstown and I told them just where. They stopped and as I was about to hop out I heard something I hadn’t heard before.</div>
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‘How much will you pay?’<br />
‘Excuse me?’ I paused mid-climb, looking back at the driver.<br />
‘How much will you pay?’<br />
‘I don’t have any money,’ I said, genuinely puzzled, getting outraged too.<br />
‘Why don’t you pay?</div>
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By now his compadres had joined him, three sets of mean little eyes peering out from a musty nest. I wanted to get away, rather the honest chill of the cold and rainy night than these three.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">‘But I was hitchhiking.’</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">‘You must pay.’</span></div>
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My doubts were confirmed a few weeks later when I found myself on the N2 outside of Hermanus, walking fast beneath the R-44 bridge, heading North. A roar began behind me and I turned, thrusting my thumb up high to the cab of a MAN 410, 16 wheeler. In a moment of dreadful clarity I saw that same mean look alive up there. The driver was staring down at me, his speed not dropping at all as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, wanting to know how much, how much. Well I responded. But my soul shrivelled and nearly died as that magnificent machine and the promise of that magnificent lift passed, and was away.</div>
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I knew then as I know now that the open spirit of the hitch is in trouble, the honest barter of the traditional hike in terrible jeapordy. Why? Impossible to tell. I’m of the opinion that things have always been this bad, have always been this good. Anything else is conjecture, impossible to prove. Perhaps the only constant, the only fact pointing to any kind of real answer is that there are more people in the world today than ever before, there is less to go around. Does that stick? I’m not sure. Fact, though; hitchhiking used to be common and accepted in my world. Today it doesn’t seem to be.<br />
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Hitchhiking is not simply about covering ground. It’s about connecting, collecting memories, nuggets of freedom to feed the dreary, normal, nine to five times. <br />
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What's it like for you?<br />
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Miltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12463345965760384949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8748839306590784162.post-51100049413771511762012-09-16T12:21:00.002+02:002012-09-21T08:08:10.278+02:00The Evolution of a Hitchhiker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Originally published as 'The Taste of Freedom' in <a href="http://www.gomag.co.za/" target="_blank">Go! Magazine, November 2011</a>.<br />
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I was driving along the M3 today, turning up to Ou Kaapse
Weg on my way to Kommetjie, when I saw a young hitch-hiker on the side of the
road. Seeing him brought a flood of memories. When I was younger I did a lot of
hitch-hiking, what seems like years of standing on road-sides just like that,
my thumb out just like that, waiting, just like that. I've gone all round the country. I've spent
time with hundreds of strangers, talking the day and the night away. I've felt that freedom, that feeling
that I know every hiker has. To put it in words goes something like this: If
you're patient enough, and willing enough, you can go anywhere. Before I know
it my mind drifts, and I'm thinking back, tracing the evolution of that feeling
of freedom for me, wondering where it went because I know I haven't felt it in
a long time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I did my first hitch-hike at the age of fourteen. I grew up
around the town of Vredenburg out on the West Coast, and one day my sisters boyfriend,
an older guy, said to me, 'Come on, lets go to Saldanha.' <o:p></o:p></div>
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I asked him how we'd get there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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'We'll hitch,' he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A little later I found myself standing on the side of a
dusty and sun drenched road, throwing stones at some rusting thing in the bush,
the ocean spread around. I felt grand, and tough, and I did my best to be cool.
There was something about standing out in the open that I liked, as if the road
was a river and we had our lines cast, waiting for the unknown to latch on.
Everytime we heard the drone of a car we took a pose and stuck our thumbs out,
wondering if this would be the one. Each time our excitement rose, the car
getting nearer and nearer, the face of the driver getting clearer and clearer,
until we could see him and we tried to smile our way in. Each time the car went
straight past. We went back to chatting and waiting, letting the feeling
subside. I wondered if we'd ever get one.
Finally, a big Valiant Duster slowed.
What a change, a total 180 in our situation. We whooped and ran for it.
Now, a Valiant is a dream of a car, a big, chunky thing with a growling V8
engine. The kind of car that can sit four on the single length front seat no
problem, and in this part of the world can tow a 12 man, 20 foot fishing boat
without a strain. The driver was a fisherman too, an ocean being with a grin
and a smoke clamped between his teeth. With eyes like the sky he declared that
he was going half-way to Saldanha, and we piled in. As he drove I soaked it up.
The frayed interior, the tear in the back seat, the smell, the feel. I listened
as they chatted, and later, after he dropped us off and we were back on the
road, half-way to where we were going, half-way away from home, I figured it
out. This was freedom. The world around wasn't unknown anymore.
Everything was an adventure waiting to happen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so the hiking began. Langebaanweg, Saldanha, Langebaan
itself. Fifty kilo's was nothing, a hundred was nothing, all it took was a
willingness and a patience. Willingness to connect with whoever might be
friendly or warm enough to stop, and patience to stand, and stand, and stand
some more. My friends and I roamed all over that country. From St Helena Bay in
the morning forty kilo's out to Langebaanweg, from there we'd cut through to the Engen on the West Coast
road, then to the Namakwa Sands turn-off
to Saldanha, and the military base, where another friend lived, and where we'd
sleep warm in old World War 2 bunkers filled with hay. Every lift was different.
There was the quiet one, the one who you wonder why he picked you up in the
first place, not even looking at you but giving a good polite good-bye at the
end. The talker, incessant cigarettes down his throat as he methodically
explains anything that comes to his West Coast soaked mind, staring through a
cracked windscreen. And the comedians,
the two mates going surfing at Trekoskraal, all animated and up for it and
climbing back over the seat with another bright-eyed anecdote and gutsy,
surf-tinted laugh. The house-wife with her twelve year old in the back or the
guy you know from school who's old enough to drive. The uncle from the video
shop who turns out to know everything about everybody, or the lorry driver of
the factory your friend's mother works at, on and on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I got older the hikes got longer. I looked east to Cape
Town, the big city, and one day I took my young freedom in my hands and went.
The hike was the biggest ever but I was infinitely armed and infinitely secure.
I knew I'd get a lift. I just needed patience, willingness. As the high-rise buildings rolled in so did
different attitudes, different points of view, and my young mind absorbed them
all. Hout Bay, Kommetjie, Durbanville,
Brackenfell. I met a man in a Maserati who was only twenty-one.He gave me a
ride from Kloof Nek to the bottom end of Camps Bay, where he was renting a
house right on the water. He had created his own business and was on his way to
Beijing as an ambassador. I met a group of Rasta's travelling to Hout Bay who
stopped just short of Llundudno and dropped off one of their own, a man who I
learned lived up in the mountain, somewhere on the tenth apostle. I was told
there was a shack there, as old as the hills, and that he spent his days there,
practising his faith in the natural way, looking out to sea. One night, late, I
stood on the fly-over highway and marvelled at the full and fat yellow moon
hanging low over the city. A man from
Vasco driving a maroon Tazz stopped for me. I was only eighteen then, a sprog sitting
in his passenger seat. He looked me up and down and didn't understand the
freedom that a hiker has, he saw only the danger of the City night and the
danger of strangers, all 3 million of them, and quietly said no, he'd take me
home, no matter that it was an extra forty minutes of driving. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then came the big hikes.
Cape Town to Grahamstown, Grahamstown to East London, the breaking of
the thousand k barrier. I found that I could leave Grahamstown at four in the
afternoon and hit Cape Town by noon the next day. All I needed was my adventuring spirit, my
hiker's faith, and the ability to stay awake all night long. I experienced 300 k's on the back of an open
bakkie screaming along at 140, a best friend next to me, a warm night wrapping
us up and beers to share for the duration. I discovered trucks. Big, beautiful,
35 tonners. MANs, Mercs, Hinos, Freightliners.
And their drivers. Men of a different breed for certain. Solitary souls
who once they got going could go and go, painting the sky with stories of
travel. Tales of Maputo and Windhoek and the deepest Congo. Stories of wives
and girlfriends and long lost loves, thirty years of long, lonely
thinking. My horizons grew as we talked
and churned up the N2 just outside of Knysna, hitting a maximum of thirty going
up that long hill and then hanging at the top, weightless as we waited for the
second trailer to join us, then screaming down, 35 tons firing up to 100, 120,
the night time trees whipping and shaking in the night time winds while we sat
up high in the cab, looking down on the world.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then... what happened? I don't know. I guess I grew up.
I bought a car. I got busy. Somehow, somewhere, all that, all the freedom and
openness and the boundary-less days changed, shrank, became something else,
until I seemed to be a different soul altogether. Thinking now I'm conscious of
how long its been since I've chatted with a stranger, offered an unknown a
helping hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look again at the hiker standing ahead. He's a young guy, he probably lives out in
Noordhoek or Sun Valley or somewhere, perhaps on his way home, perhaps his
girlfriend is out there. I click on the indicator and I see his face change,
brighten up, a total 180 for both of us. I pull up ahead of him and see him
running in the rearview mirror. I reach
over and pull the passenger door open, wondering. Who is this guy? What's he
going to tell me? What's he got to say? This is good, I think, this is the
beginning of something different, something unknown, a small taste of freedom
for a hard working drone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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'Hi,' he says, 'I'm going to Scarborough.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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'Great,' I say, 'get in.'<o:p></o:p><br />
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