The whole idea was to see if we could do this for two months, in the States. And so we decided to try local first. Roads and valleys we knew well: towns and campsites familiar to the eye.

We left the Tuesday post the Easter weekend, Ben and I both gagging with mild gastro. I’m still not sure if it was the beef marinade we’d eaten two days before, or just a case of Easter bunny over-exhaustion… in the words of Manuel from Faulty Towers, ‘I know not’.

So we arrived at SA Roadtrippers in a flurry of ‘barely organised’, mentally check-listing if we’d switched off the stove, and remembered to lock doors. While Ben disappeared to sign papers, he asked if I could watch the half hour (compulsory) video footage of how to operate the camper-van. Before that moment, I hadn’t thought it too complicated: surely it was a case of drive in the front, sleep in the back? But not so. There was the pump and gas to operate, the toilet system (which had to be closed whilst driving), the gas: which had to be switched off whilst filling up with diesel, the oil and water: which had to be checked by us (and not the petrol attendant). All these potential complications, which ten minutes into the clip made me sweat with stress (combined with a wriggling sub-two Seth on my lap, and the April sun melting through the window). And we hadn’t even left yet. Thankfully however: Ben is of the practical persuasion, and whilst I was assimilating theory, he was familiarising himself with the van with help from of one of the staff. Yay.

After (yet) another flurry of trying to pack crates of food away, and making sure that nothing could fly around the cabin area if he were to brake hard, we drove away from Epping Industrial in search of the N1.

For first timers (which we were), the van is long (seven metres). So when you turn, you need a wider berth, as the wheels are located midway along the chassis. My point: is that you need someone super confidant to drive, and better to opt for the most comprehensive insurance. To nail a cliché, it’s peace of mind, and therefore peace of holiday. Insurance though does not cover night driving, and so the intention was always to arrive at our destination before the sun fare-welled behind the horizon.

That day, our destination was Warmwaterberg: a three hour stretch from Cape Town (which took us five). When Ben had planned the holiday, the aim had been to drive almost every day, but not excessively far (an average of 150km a day). The reason is that with the van, you have to plan for a longer driving time.  And with two under two, we also had to factor in nappy changes, and every other demand Seth could think of.

His requests were sweet though. Most entailed me playing with him, sitting across the table from the boys: throwing a ball at them, or drawing their attention to cows in a passing field. Whatever staved off the restless need for them to wonder the cabin. Only I was allowed to navigate the interior: fetching balls, juice for whoever needed, closing a clanging cupboard or finding nuts. And the only feeling I could equate it to was walking to the bathroom during a turbulent flight. Sea-legs.

Day one finally ended with us submerging ourselves in the warm baths, as the evening settled around us. It was quiet, with only a few other voices filling the space around us. My body relaxed, and the intensity of the day dissolved into the water around me.

After a short swim, we quickly bundled the boys and ran back to our lighted van, warm as we entered. And as I dressed and nappied them for the night, Ben headed to the restaurant to order the humble meal our gastro stomachs would allow. Returning, we then wrapped the boys again and walked to dinner, grateful that we didn’t have to cook.

Waiting there, as is his nightly custom, was Eben. An old farmer from across the way, he chatted (wine glass in hand) about recent revelations. Of the old school, he greeted me with cap in hand: a gesture any girl welcomes with quiet amazement. And on TV in the corner, something like Noot vir Noot was screening, adding to the tweetalige ambiance of an old, but clean establishment and Eben’s heavy accent. I was happy.

The next day, we took a morning swim and then decided to braai the chicken we’d brought. The idea was to organise a bigger lunch while the weather was promising, and a smaller dinner (which would alleviate the admin of having to negotiate dinner, bath time and bed for the boys (almost all simultaneously) later that evening. So as Ben turned the wings, Seth wondered the gardens (occasionally trying to unplug the power supply) and I made a salad and kept a left eye on Zach, (sitting in shade-turned-sun) who was slowly starting to crisp.

Gnawing on chicken bones, we then planned the next part of our day: pack, take a last swim and then drive through to ATKV (Hartenbos) in Mossel Bay, our destination for the next two nights. According to their website, the ATKV was founded in 1930 by twelve people as an organisation where people could share ‘the good of’ Afrikaans. Today, this cultural foundation boasts 70 000 members, and Mossel Bay is just one of the seven sites available. 

Approximately four and a half hours away from Cape Town, the sun had now begun to set earlier, which meant that we drove into the campsite just as darkness had descended. The darkness though was pierced by the fires of dozens of families, all braaing their wors. We were the only camper-van, and so as we turned a disturbingly narrow corner, all eyes fixed, and tongs halted their turning. Suddenly, I remembered that long-buried teenage feeling of wanting to blend, but being very obviously different. And in that moment, it felt like a hundred of those 70 000 eyes were on us. Wonderful. And just to add to my temporary insecurity, some kids later decided to play the ancient tok tokkie on our window, as I cut tomatoes for our snack. Ben thought it hilarious. Me, not so much.

Tok tokkie was just one pastime. Another was riding bikes (for the younger), French plaiting their hair (for the older girls), to strut their adolescent selves in the hopes of attracting other (equally aged) strutters. I felt like I was at a peacock mating ceremony. It was endearing. There was something about these kids, different from the city. And only on the second day did I realise what that difference was: the absence of iphones. Steve Jobs hadn’t made his way to Mossel: it was the 80’s. 

During the day, the campsite was relatively empty. Sites were left pristine, with washing hanging out to dry outside. After a short walk along the sea-facing promenade, we finally found everyone at the Hartenbos Seafront Funpark and Waterworld: sliding down the R8 slides, shopping for designer slops or again, strutting. We loved the spot. You could do everything from buy pizzas in a cone, to gym. Blasting sokkie favourites from loud-speakers was the Hartenbos radio station Sfm  (90.1fm), just to keep you (culturally) tuned. Oh, and to assist the strutting, a formal sokkie dance had been organised just two days before we arrived, with posters advertising the event still present. It was a pocket of culture. 

Slightly the outsiders though, we decided to order fish and chips from Mrs Fish. The Mrs serving us the fish however didn’t seem as impressed by our halting Afrikaans as we were, and scowled when we queried after our order (apparently once too often).  Ben was a hair away from acquainting Mrs Fish with his thoughts on the matter, but decided instead to persevere. Good thing, because lunch was delectable, and Mossel cheap. Being of the saving sort, we’re both attracted to good deals: and Hartenbos is that.

Waving Mossel goodbye the next morning, it was then on to Knysna (which would be our last stop before turning back towards Cape Town). The aim on day four was to arrive in time to visit the elephant park, which we managed just as the last tour of the day left. And we were underwhelmed. It was R640 for an hour’s trip into the field. The exposure had been intended for Seth, but he seemed better amused by the ten minute tractor trip to get there. Big elephants apparently don’t impress. Wish we could’ve known.

That night back at the site, I cooked a rainy-day soup while Ben and Seth explored the play area, and Zach sat on the floor clapping furiously to Johnny Clegg. It was chicken, onions…and whatever other vegetables were about to expire before returning home. It was hearty, and with stomachs full we put the boys to bed: Zach on the top bunk above the driver’s cabin, and Seth in the double bed towards the end of the cabin- curtains drawn to create cosy. And as silence smiled on us, with the warm smell of soup still filtering through the air…we settled down in our mouse-like living space to watch a Sherlock Holmes. Cosy and quiet. Until Zach cried, at which point I had to scamper up the ladder to our bed, and calm him. Occasionally, I would part the curtains of our tiny window to watch a clouded moon throwing soft light onto the dewy, cold grass outside. It was small. But small is sweet.

The next was to be our last day, to the Karoo water warm baths in Carlitzdorp. The highlight here (besides the free monkey viewing by an enthralled Seth) was actually dinner in the town that night, at a quaint restaurant called Zamani Grill (highly recommended by tripadvisor).  With an order of crumbed mushrooms, steak and salad- we felt loved by the Karoo. Our waitress (shy and sweet as a wilting flower) embodied where we were. Isolated, but genuine.

That night though, we broke the rules slightly. The boys were exhausted, and so we parked at the side of the road after our meal, bathed them and put them to sleep as Ben drove us back to our site. Not recommended, but it came to their instant relief. And that concluded our trip. To be honest, the States might have to wait. But for the States, I too can wait. For now, we will enjoy passing local cows. And watch a sweet little Seth fall asleep in the review mirror, and debone a lamb chop. And…take a home-video to the tune of 90.1fm. A sokkie vir my bokkie.