Tales Road
FROM
THE
The setting sun shifts from a bright,
clean light to a peachy, orange glow that
paints our faces a colour the envy of
Instagrammers worldwide – except that
it’s 2005 and Instagram is but a sparkle
in an X-Gen’s eye. We clutch our beer
bottles and nestle into our jackets, smiling
and talking about the day. We’re 24 and
think we’re pretty cool, standing on the
edge of the basalt cliffs looking over
the Valley of Desolation just outside of
Graaff-Reinet. Looking back at the photos
now, we look remarkably like an Oasis
cover band.
Shaun, Lara, Hannah, Jon and I had lived
in a digs in Grahamstown/Makhanda when
we attended Rhodes University together.
It had been a couple of years since we’d
shared our lives so closely, and a sort of
family reunion trip seemed like a fine idea.
Jon was in Ireland, though, so we named
a wooden toy cow after him in his place
as the next best thing. I’m not sure human
Jon saw the likeness, but I’m sure he
appreciated the sentiment. Probably.
We chose the Karoo as our destination,
I wish I could say we were
paying close attention to
Deep Time as we took in
every moment of the majestic
Karoo, but we got
sidetracked sampling
South Africa’s very own
tequila at a local distillery
REFLECTING ON FRIENDSHIP AND DEEP TIME ON A ROAD
TRIP THROUGH THE KAROO, BY KATH FOURIE
keen to visit the alien, ghostly landscapes
of the Eastern Cape, where agave plants,
ostriches and the rocks of the Karoo
Super Group stitch together a timeless
world. “Ancient” refers to a time that
human history is imprinted upon. The
Karoo is far older in its spiritual feeling;
the sandy lands are studded with fossil
treasure from 200 million years ago (and
older). The Karoo displays Deep Time to
all who care to pay attention to it.
I wish I could say we were paying close
attention to Deep Time as we took in
every moment of the majestic Karoo, but
we got sidetracked on the second day,
sampling South Africa’s very own tequila at
a local distillery.
After we recovered, we travelled
through to Nieu Bethesda, a tiny town
lying at the foot of the Compassberg,
famous for the Owl House, the beautiful
and bizarre home of Helen Martins.
We wandered through the property,
taking in the hundreds of owls, camels,
mermaids and biblical figures made of
cement and glass. We agreed that they
seemed to vibrate with energy, their
purpose pulsing to receptive visitors.
Helen Martins committed suicide in her
old age by drinking caustic soda, which
was difficult not to think about in the
hours after we’d left the museum. We ate
supper at a local school that raised funds
by hosting dinners for tourists, and we
shared red wine we bought at the bottle
store, walking between the willows and
old-fashioned water canals that edged
the streets. I wanted to stay longer and to
climb the Compassberg, but Port Elizabeth
was calling.
We completed our trip as we traversed
a sand dune, dropping into Sardinia
Bay. The water looked like a blue-green
gouache painting against the white sand.
It looked utterly freezing. Glancing at each
other we knew there was no option but to
get in – and it wouldn’t count if our hair
wasn’t wet! A bit weary of each other’s
company now, like siblings travelling in a
car, the brilliant sensation of the Eastern
Cape’s cold water iced our scalps and
completely obliterated any traces of ill
temper. Parking lot ice-creams in hand,
wet towels around our waists and sandy
feet steadied on the tar, we leaned against
the car and talked about the delicious
dinner at Natti’s Thai Kitchen that we had
decided on for our last meal together.
Jon the Cow bobbed his head on the
dashboard in approval.
We may not have been ready to fully
appreciate Deep Time on that trip, but at
age 24 travel was about the glowing faces
of friends-who-feel-like-family on top of
impossibly high cliffs, roadside picnics full
of tequila regret and drifting along black
threads of tar singing along to Sublime,
mostly very out of tune.
MAKE MEMORIES FOR LIFE // 61