AFRICA IS ALL ABOUT THE UNEXPECTED
The year was 1970. After two years in SA, we planned our first extended trip in this part of the world and had to choose between exploring the thenRhodesia or South West Africa, today’s Namibia — two very different destinations. Since I’d come from Germany, it was the idea of seeing in reality what, in my childhood days, had been one of four red spots on the map of Africa (the territories once under German administration) that helped us decide to go
to South West.
We didn’t know at the time that the country had been in the midst of a severe drought for a number of years. Once we drove west and further west from Johannesburg into hot and dry country, we repeatedly thought we had made the wrong choice. It took time to adapt to these new surroundings and to appreciate the beauty of the seemingly endless, dry landscapes.
From friends, we had heard about Ais Ais, the mineral spring in the south of the country. Looking forward to the treat of a hot bath after another long, hot and fascinating drive through rugged and wild country, we eventually arrived at Ais Ais — only to be told that the resort was closed for renovations.
Disappointed and tired, we turned back, up the curvy sand road out of the valley. It was evening and, exhausted, we had to find a place to stay overnight in what you may well call the middle of nowhere. We passed a sign to a farm, “Quaggasnek”.
We tried to turn back on the next bend, where the road was quite wide, and immediately got stuck, our front wheels in the deep sand the padskraper had left when levelling the road.
Unfamiliar with such a situation, my thinking was, “I got caught in the forward direction, so I may get out in reverse.” I tried, and the rear wheels just dug into the sand and the whole chassis of the car was now solidly on the ground.
Fortunately, after a (long) while, a car, the only one we had seen for hours, approached. It was the farmer of Quaggasnek and he and his farm worker, with their bakkie, were able to pull us out of the sand.
Hearing about our predicament, the farmer invited us to stay overnight on his farm, “at the river”. We slowly followed him on the farm road, looking out for the river, and eventually arrived at his small farmhouse.
“Oh, you crossed the river. It is dry now,” he said.
That’s how we learnt that “river” doesn’t necessarily mean “water”, and we spent the night “on the banks of the river”.
More revelations were ahead.
A memorable one was that arriving at a wellknown fishing harbour doesn’t mean there’ll be fish for everyone.
On the salt road, with dunes on one side and the sea on the other, we were approaching Walvis Bay.
How we were looking forward to a good meal of fish at this well-known place!
We went to a shop and enquired where to get such a meal. They looked at us as if we had come directly from the moon. Where to eat fish? What a strange question.
At the third (and last) place, we were told there was a place further down the street where, on a Friday, we might find fish on the menu. But we had come to Walvis Bay on a Tuesday.
Thus, we turned back, found a place where we could stay for lunch, and opened a tin of Portuguese sardines, which we had in the car.
Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photo of yourself for publication with the column.