BATTLE CRUISERS
70 YEARS YOUNG AND STILL GOING STRONG – OUR PICKS FROM THE FAMILY TREE
that buried chassis and the Beetle hoisted outside her shop are symbols of community. They’re charitable emblems dedicated to the efforts by the Nuts and Bolts Rally, which raises money for schooling in the local area, cancer treatment and to help taxi local kids the 90 miles to and from the Padstal to school and back. Even in apparent desolation there’s humanity and community spirit.
Heading further north, the clouds gather up in the yawning sky, turning steadily thick and heavy. Then something truly unexpected happens. It rains. Annual precipitation in the basin is extremely low, ranging from 70–110mm a year. In fact, it hasn’t rained here for over six months. It’s just typical then, that the day arrives, the heavens open, hurling down fat droplets of water onto the uninhabitable, almost extraterrestrial landscape. The Land Cruiser welcomes a change of surface, simply ploughing on, sloshing through deep, orange puddles as we seek refuge in the only place to stay along the road: Tankwa Tented Camp.
But as we pull in, the sun starts to set and the landscape really rolls up its sleeves, putting on a show fit for New Year’s Eve in Vegas. It was as if the sky had been subjected to an arson attack, with the burning ruins of a sunset competing against the hot winds, liquorice black clouds and a plump curtain of rainfall. I’m not sure what standing in a volcano feels like – hot, I guess – but this is probably as close as you can get to the visuals.
Coming to rest next to – of all things – a metallic pirate ship, we are greeted by a man called Deon. This is where the weirdness really starts to crank up a notch. Deon lives what he calls a “no overhead lifestyle”. Everything he owns goes to his pocket and he has lived one hell of a life. He rode 28,000 miles through 17 countries around Africa, was robbed and shot in the head with a shotgun in Pemba island, lived with a Masai tribe, nearly lost his leg last year in a motorbike accident, has broken his back falling off a two-storey building in Tanzania. I’m not sure how many of his nine lives he’s got left, but I know the BBC’s health and safety department would love to have a word with him.
He manages the hedonistic tented getaway where we’re spending the night. Boozing in a dimly lit remote bar (walls sprayed with rubbers from bar-top motorbike burnouts), I learn that this is the site of Afrikaburn, the little African brother of Nevada’s Burning Man; a psychedelic voyage into community spirit where arty types come to the desert, trade in commodities, get drunk (and sunburnt) before burning to the ground all the art they’ve spent months building.
The next morning, I peel myself off the bedding (a night in 40odd degree heat isn’t comfortable. Something to remark on the
“AS WE PULL IN, THE SUN STARTS TO SET AND THE LANDSCAPE PUTS ON A SHOW FIT FOR A NEW YEAR’S EVE IN VEGAS”