Mom lent us her Cortina. Like this, but OHS:
How brave was that!? The longer I have teenagers of my own the more I admire my Mom and her quiet courage and fortitude back in the ’70’s! The thought of giving my teenage son my car and allowing him to disappear (it would be in a cloud of dust and tyre smoke) on a three week jaunt fills me with querulous whimpering. (I’ll do it, I’ll do it, but only cos Mom did it for me).
We drove to PMB then on to Cape Town. Took us ten days in going nowhere slowly style back in 1976.
Wherever we found a spot – preferably free – we camped in my little orange pup tent. Weza Forest – free; Tsitsikamma – we paid:
internet pics till I find mine
Driving through the Knysna Forest we saw a sign Beware of the Effilumps. So we took the little track that turned off nearby and camped – for free – in the undergrowth. Maybe we’d see a (very) rare Kynsna elephant. Not.
In Cape Town we stayed with Lynne Wade, lovely lass who’d been a Rotary Exchange Student too. She played the piano for us and I fell deeply in love, then disappeared on yet another beer-fuelled mission. Coward.
Malmesbury – We visited Uncle Boet and Tannie Anna. Oom Boet was on top form, telling jokes and stories and laughing non-stop. That evening he had to milk the cow, so we accompanied him to the shed. Laughing and talking he would rest his forehead against the cow’s flank every now and then and shake with helpless mirth at yet another tale. Meantime, this was not what the cow was used to. It had finished the grain and usually he was finished milking when she had finished eating. So the cow backs out and knocks him off the stool, flat on his back, bucket and milking stool upturned. He takes a kick at the cow, misses and puts his back out. Larry and I are hosing ourselves as we help him up and try and restore a semblance of order and dignity.
Back at the house we give them a bottle of imported liquer to say thanks for a lovely stay. It’s a rather delicious chocolate-tasting liquer and it says haselnuss mit ei. Its only 500ml so we soon flatten it. Something like this, but smaller:
Ja lekker, maar ag dis bokkerol, Kosie – Ons kan dit self maak! (We could make this stuff ourselves!)
Larry and I decide to call his bluff. In the village we looked for dark chocolate and hazelnuts, but hey, it’s Malmesbury – we got chocolate with nuts.
Oom Boet is bok for the challenge. He dives under the kitchen sink and starts hauling things out. He’s on his hands and knees and his huge bum protrudes like a plumber’s as he yells “Vrou! Waar’s die masjien?” Anna has to step in and find things and do things as he organises. She finds a vintage blender and – acting under a string of unnecessary instructions – she breaks eggs and separates the yolks, breaks chocolate into small pieces. He bliksems it all into the blender and adds a fat dollop of a clear liquid from a label-less bottle. “Witblits (moonshine), Kosie!” he says triumphantly. He looks and goois more in, then more. Then a last splash.
like this, but the goo inside was yellowy-brown:
He switches on the blender with a flourish and a fine blend of egg yolk, chocolate and powerful-smelling hooch splatters all over the kitchen ceiling, walls and sink. He hadn’t put the lid on! And it was like a V8 blender, that thing.
Vrou starts afresh, we mop, we add, he blends, and then it’s ready for tasting at last.
And undrinkable. That aeroplane fuel strength home-distilled liquor was just too violent. We take tiny little sips, but even Oom Boet has to grudgingly admit his is perhaps not quite as good as the imported stuff. We add more chocolate and more egg yolk, but its only slightly better.
Ten years later I still had the bottle and it was still three-quarters full!