Calitzdorp. To the traveler, a 150m straight stretch of tar that materializes from a left hand curve in the scrubby countryside of the Klein Karoo and drops downhill, flanked by a dusty little town. Halving one's speed - from 120km/h to 60km/h - in the short distance allocated isn't easy when you're cannonballing along in a van full of gear. The traffic cop who pulls me over asks me if I know I was doing 73 in a 60 zone. I decide to cooperate - these small town fuckers aren't all as friendly as our erstwhile hosts. I follow him across the road to his car and speeding camera, parked next to the town cemetery, with its once shiny gravestones dulled by the dust and faded by the sun. Judging by the amount of activity elsewhere along the street, this is probably about as lively as Calitzdorp gets. While Andrew and Iain gleefully film the whole thing on video, hanging like lunatics from the vehicle across the road, I plead poverty and get the fine down from R100 to R80. "Watch out for these small towns," is the cop's not unfriendly parting advice.
About 60km this side of Barrydale, the small green tourist information sign says Ronnie's Sex Shop. Few people can remember when it was still called Ronnie's Shop, before some wag added the word Sex to the slightly uneven red lettering on the whitewashed wall of the tiny little building. We pull off the road in a cloud of dust, and draw up alongside an old rusted tractor that occupies pride of place in the middle of the sand car park. Stepping up onto the large cement stoep, we are struck by the emptiness. There is nothing but scrubland that extends in all directions until breaking like a static spiky olive-grey wave against the gravelly base of the Langeberg mountain foothills that line the road at a watchful distance. Inside Ronnie's it's cool and dark. Welcoming and somehow familiar with the non-judgmental air of an old friend. The main bar is small: a heavy wooden counter that accommodates four stools and one small sit-down table with a few chairs. There is a large fireplace for the bitter Klein Karoo nights and a well worn dartboard. The rafters are all but obscured by the hundreds of ties, caps and other jetsam left by earlier travelers. Attached to the main bar is a tiny room with a picture window facing the road. A small couch under the window, a fireplace and an upright fridge fill the room. In both rooms, the walls are covered by graffiti - all inexplicably scrawled in identical black felt tip marker. The mystery is explained when Werner the barman throws me an Artline and says "Make your mark." Zen Arcade joins the spaghetti swirl of names, dates, epigrams and swear words. Eugene was right about the beer - the Black Labels are ice cold. Andy and Iain tuck into a pie while I play darts. According to Werner, the place is busy from morning till night, thriving solely on passing trade. Refreshed, half an hour later, we're back on the road.
We join the N1 at Worcester. I am visited by unpleasant hitchhiking memories from years before - standing on the long, straight road that inclines downhill (no stopping here) before scrambling northwards up the mountain pass to De Doorns. Desperately trying to flag down a car as the night closes in, with icy embrace. But that was then. Now I'm driving, we're headed south and ... before I know it. we're thundering through the De Toitskloof tunnel. By the time we arrive at dear friend JP's house in Kommetjie, near Cape Town, exhausted from the drive, it's 9.30pm. JP is working like a Trojan, and has insane deadlines, but we watch a video and manage a chat before sleep wins out. |
