There’s nothing (much) happening in the Northern Cape. And this article is about the Northern Cape. There are no bright lights and swag. Your tea will not be brought at the same time as your cake, so please stop asking! And you will find mosquitoes in Carnarveron. Many. Like tiny drones hiding to ambush you upon the closing of the weary eye,
Nope. It’s about 40degree heat. Dehydration. A creaky windmill pumping water onto abandoned, cracked ground. Stone houses, because no wood could be found to build the roof. White only towns, and a lone black horse, walking across a farm.
Welkom by die Noord Kaap mense.
On the R386, you will not see another car for two hours (especially if you travel on New Year’s Day). You will lose signal (even if you subscribe to Vodacom). And you will battle to find accommodation along the river in Prieska (if you arrive on the day and haven’t pre-booked). True story. And there’s nothing in Prieska.
Sometimes life is hard. That’s just life. But in the in-between, there is the beautiful and the forgotten. The simple. And in the simplification, the small things become apparently wonderful. Like a thunderstorm. As Capetonians, we prance the year through with not so much as a shower. Not so in the Northern Cape (where we bordered the Free State along the Orange River). There was lightning, and the charge of anticipation that came with it. Thunderstorms always bring with them a sense of freedom and excitement, that moment where you close your eyes and feel unrestrained by the constraints of life. Like in that moment it’s you, and every hopeful desire you keep close. Too close sometimes.
A thunderstorm simmered in the distance as we left the main camp of Egerton Game Lodge. We were on our way higher up the river…to paddle back down. I was slightly nervous we wouldn’t make it back in time (before the storm hit), but we did. The sky turned, the wind blew through reluctant branches overhead, and as the first thunder cracked we took our seats around the big dining room table at the main lodge to a steaming plate of pasta. Two years prior, we had stayed at this same (hunting) lodge. Back then, we had cooked and eaten all our meals at our little cottage. It had felt quite isolated though. This year, we realised that if you cook and eat at the main camp, you:
- Get to meet a whole lot of other travellers
- Don’t have to do your own washing up (says the lazy white girl)
- Your kids get to play with whoever else agrees to be their friend- these days it’s anyone shorter than 1.5metres!
Just before we left Cape Town, we had bought glow-sticks from the Crazy store for our young boys. Best investment. Every evening, they would get a one each. And every evening, the same excitement would overwhelm Zach (our middle), as his little emotions would bubble out at the sight of the luminous in his hand. One night, he even fell asleep holding tightly to his little treasure. And as the holiday progressed, glow sticks would also be dispensed to whoever else the boys had decided was their friend (again, anyone eye level or slightly taller).
One night, still on the Orange River, all the kids went down to the ‘beach’. They combined their glow sticks to form one huge ring, which could be tossed into the night sky. So all I saw from the main camp above were intermittent flashes of light piercing the dark… temporary enough to capture the imagination, and maybe even imprint on their memory- young as they are. I often think that as adults, we don’t know when that first memory will captured. And my hope is that whatever that momentary experience is, that it’ll be a good one. Like throwing a glow stick, and closing little hands around a failed attempt to catch it on its way down. The simple.
From Egerton, we took a day trip to Orania. The place of the white. After visiting two years ago, the town still never ceases to fascinate me. It’s the South Africa of the 80’s: built on the backs of the ‘boer’, but to the exclusion of anyone who cannot claim Afrikaans culture or heritage. About a month ago though, a friend mentioned that a year after his inauguration, Nelson Mandela had actually visited the place. And if you google this, you will find a newspaper clipping of the great man, standing next to a very old and little Betsie Verwoerd (both looking very pleased).
Years later though, commenting on Madiba’s death, Carel Boshoff (president of the Orania Movement) was quoted to have said: ‘we encountered his death with dry eyes and due respect’. So it is (with dry eyes and due respect), that I asked our tour guide the afternoon we visited if someone of different race or ethnicity (yet who was raised within the Afrikaans culture and language) would be allowed to live in Orania?
His answer: was that ‘research’ has proven that such an individual would naturally (come 19 years of age) gravitate back to their own ethnic place and people of origin (despite upbringing). And though it was not stated, I heard an emphatic no.
The foundations of the town’s existence therefore (in my mind and humble opinion) are questionable. On the ‘surface’ however, it is a haven of the 80’s. Kids ride their bikes, unsupervised. Young mothers follow their toddlers, as they splash through puddles after an afternoon thunderstorm. Mince vetkoeks vendor for R20. They are fresh, and threaten to plump the happy recipient. Everything is affordable.
According to some Afrikaans locals from Kimberley, the opinion in the area is that Orania is home to the poorer of the culture, those that couldn’t make it on the ‘outside’. And so, happy as clams, children and parents grow with their few friends (the average age being 30). They lay paving and build infrastructure with their own hands. They kuier, they drag race on New Year’s Eve…and exchange goods for a currency called the Ora. I don’t think technology has reached their proverbial shores. Not one child with a cell phone or iphone. Life there is not lived through a screen. It’s the earth you touch, the sunlight on your skin. The thrill of diving off the board at the local pool, and having to jump out as thunder starts to rumble. The brick in your hand. At the nursery, I found a cell phone, and had to track down its recipient (who seemed unperturbed by its absence). In all honesty, if my phone goes missing- I start experiencing heart palpitations. Small creative licence, but close enough to the truth:)
This latter point was in stark contrast to some ‘friends’ our boys had made on the river. These little beings had brought their ipads on holiday, and in front of the majesty of the river and the beauty of the outdoors, they were inside- nose deep in games. And it tore at my heart. I’m the first to admit that every parent has its faults. We could all do better. And yes, I too resort to TV time in moments of desperation. But for the sake of building a memory that will last, tear the little addict away from their screen. They’ll scream. I know it. But afterwards, they’ll see light and colour that is real. They’ll see you, and you them. They will find what it means to be alive. Sometimes the pain in it. Sometimes the imperfect, the simple. The very little (but maybe a lot), the Northern Cape has to offer. But whatever little emotions present themselves in those moments, you’ll be able to make them look up. To the rainbow in the sky. For after the dark clouds, the thunder and the roar of falling water- the sky will clear. And there will be light.