HIT THE ROAD, JACK
I left home on Christmas morning, hitching to town to ‘fetch’ (steal) my brother’s car and pick up Tex – a woman with a love for guns (as well as cigarettes and bass guitars). We washed away the pain/trauma of our last supper – a combination of limp salad, unknown meats and demented family members – with a bottle of wine; first of many.
Following a music tour is rife with hazards, which for two working girls (media meisies) include in order: being called working girls (har har); being mistaken for groupies (I’m taking pictures for a magazine, you ass); not being taken seriously (we may be the only female media people here but girls don’t only work in the kitchen, bitches); oh and being treated as mentally retarded (Quote: “they’re outsiders, they don’t even understand Afrikaans. I hate outsiders who come here and think they can just hang out with the tour.” Ons kan alles verstaan en ons sit fokken langs aan jou, doos). You want to see your name in print?
That aside, we hit the road as/like Jack and Neal(s).
STILBAAI
A cooler box of water and pre-mixed Katemba. We drifted through the desert on a heat wave, rolling along with the gold fields, reddish tilled earth and above a flat, blue sky. Painted signs for Sweetcorn were the only thing to break the landscape.
Rolling along, rolling along…oh in the back seat of your car
Wind, dust, magic. The show was oracular spectacular. Lighting was perfek. Got overly excited about that (see: Rum Diaries: Stilbaai).
Later: Cloud cover comma rain. Time ran out on the sound curfew (yes, curfew!). Show was cancelled (FPK, aKing) and the stage was dismantled. Fail.
Went back to the car to drink our wine-coloured coke. Steamy. Back to the campsite. A bright light in lieu of fire. Discovered Tex (aka Tecla) with a bottle of Jagermeister. We ended up sleping in the instrument tent among the guitar(ist)s. Tecla found a great place next to a bass. Woke up early. Really early. Staff chatting loudly outside the tent. Time to leave. Campsite was still and dewy when we left. A lone musician walking with his guitar, everyone else still dreaming.
MOSSELBAAI/HARTENBOS
Bar 2km, Partially demolished outhouse with Accomodation Available painted on the wall. Albertinia, jubilistic/jubilationary (jubilant) petrol attendants waving us in to a Shell (?) where cigarettes were R15/service with a smile/aged ladies wished us luck for our trip.
Campfire sing-along. Oil paint starry sky. Swimming in a (non) contaminated river while people waved from the opposite bank. Long, slow day, summer heat, more sing-along/speel-along.
The Seerowers – part pirate, part cheerleader/geesgewer, part alcoholic – were some of the craziest and coolest people I’ve ever met. Tjoppie, St John aka Sin Gin, Drian, Corne, Clintin, Jacques… “Outjie met ‘n lekker boudtjie”.
Hartenbos. “You have to see it to understand what it’s like” – Beitel. True. A thousand children. Not much to do it seems. Drinking box wine out of a plastic bag on the beach. More Katemba. Sweat-on-wall heat inside the Saal. Singing to Zinkplaat in the style of Bouwer Bosch. Inappropriate gees. Poppies doing make-up in the bathroom endlessly.
Rode back on the bus. Seerower whiskey. Slept by the fire. “Get out of the tent, you stink like braai/pondok” – Tecla. Saw a tree covered in snow? Turned out to be a flock of white birds. A snow-feathered flurry. Left at 6am. Arrived at George at 6:05am. I kid. Speed kills.
Clinical insanity on the highway during epic drive sonder petrol. Turned a circle on the N2. Made it to a petrol station by rolling down the hill into JBay.
Arrived dirty, hungover and tired. Dragged ourselves to the first backpackers we saw in humidity of death. Crazed dog woman with mankbeen and twitch-eye lead us into deserted hallway. Smell of chloroform and formaldehyde? “Tecla, we’re going to be made into furnature.” “Or a rug for her dogs” - Tecla. Escape!
Another backpackers. Attracted by sign that says ‘Bar’ next to one that says ‘Office’. Meet legends, Leo and Ettienne, who take pity on us and give us beds, shower facilities, drinks from the bar and cocktail recipes for NIKS. Free. Zero cash spendature. L.e.g.e.n.d.s.
New Year’s Eve. NYE. Insane amount of Robertson’s Sweet Rosé box wine. Thanks Beitel. Thanks Dawie. Thank you Robertsons. Also: rum, that we left open outside the venue near where people seem to be pissing. Possible ecoli poisoning.
Back to the backpackers (Jeffrey’s Bay Backpackers. Go there.) Car battery is dead. Fok. Leave it for the morning. Oh wait. Public holiday. No one has jumper leads. Great. Hot as fucking hell. Ettienne, Attie and Gary save us. Innate knowledge of mechanics. GP boys are awesome.
Six hour drive back to Stanford. See Porra and the DPK bakkie at the petrol station/Oasis Total Garage. He seems perturbed by our haggard appearance. Playing catch up to the next car, speeding bullet driving. Passing the time. Sing all the way back, kilometres flashing by on all the green boards.
Voor ons stof word…
Hermanus. At least have had some rest. Incredibly make it to the whole show. Tecla gets the Seerowers to write their names on her arms for article purposes. More box wine, brandy, roll-y etc. End up with Ryno Velvet lyrics on my stomach, Tecla’s back and Beitel’s arm. Ai my lam, indeed.
Everyone dances on the stage with Zinkplaat. Hos ja. Is ja.
Drunk as fuck. Get back to the campsite (miraculously no police on el highway to town). Party. Hepa. The fire burns low, people close their eyes together, side by side in the moonlight, which spills out over the lagoon. Smoke on the water, fire in the sky.
Cold and grey morning light. It starts to rain, tears for the farewell where no one cries – too happy/exhausted/hungover/drunk. Troubles blown away. Waving, the bus turns left, we turn right, along the slick road, winding back home. Totsiens almal. Til next year. Is ja.
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