Two Nights With A Gentleman

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Stuck

First up again and showered, I helped to put down all but one tent. “I think folding the tents would be better than rolling. It has the dimensions for it,” pondered Albert. Geek. I was up to my elbows in mud, “Whatever Albert, but I’ll stick to rolling.” It had rained last night and our sandy clay floor had turned to mud. Team America swept brushed and folded their tent while I bundled mine together. We were running late again.

The sun was out but with all the rain, the gravel roads had washed away making diversions inevitable. If we were lucky we would only arrive at Peter’s Farm before nightfall. The Namibian Desert was blooming with enduring plants and challenged all that I believed it would be. Yellow flowers were visibly flashing by in amongst the silver grass. Terracotta boulders looked like they had been scraped together by a giant hand into random piles across the plains. “I have never seen it so vegetated. In my three years of coming here, this is…” his eyes seemed to change colours in amazement like the scenery. “Amazing. I have never seen it so green.” Voice filled with awe he didn’t turn to look at me but soaked the flourishing Namib Desert in as if he blinked it would disappear. “Look at those boulders; they looked like they have been scraped together…” A giant’s playground in full bloom and I felt wonderfully dwarfed by the endless plain and the piles of boulders that for no reason have been left there. Hands on the steering wheel; he would lift one and wave it across the landscape, trying to find the words to describe how rare this is. The words never came but he didn’t have to say anything.

A small stream had turned into a river across our path. About twenty meters wide the river crossed the sandy road at a dip. Shifting into gear we dipped down and as we were about to rise out the other side, the truck sank back in, deflated. All heads popped up from their resting position in the back like Meerkats. Derick and I looked at each other and tried not to laugh. Marooned in the middle of the river, the boys (minus Hendrik) jumped out to assess the situation. Careful not to smack Albert in the head as he started to let air out of the tires, I waded barefoot into the cool water. The red clay and sand mixture felt good between my toes and the water was flowing fast enough stop it from sticking permanently.
A bakkie facing us driven by a farmer and his worker watched our truck with deflated tires struggle to move even a couple of inches. He left to find some more muscle. As he disappeared, a rough looking South African with a handle bar moustache and beer belly supported by the waistband of his faded green shorts sauntered up. All of his German clients in their knee high socks and sensible shoes followed him to the edge of the river to take pictures of our predicament. He began letting more air out of tyres and offering sage advice. He jumped into the cabin and began grinding the clutch of the truck in the efforts to save the day. Lucky for us the real cavalry had arrived in the form of a battered bakkie, with PATROL stencilled on the side, a winch in the front and several local men in the back.

“They are just letting the tyres down randomly. That can’t be good! Do they even know what they are doing?”
“Eh, if we get stuck we can all sleep on top of the truck. It’ll make a good story,” I replied with my spirits far from dampening. She looked at me if I was deranged. “Why did he take that line anyway? All the cars before it would have made it deeper. Should have gone that way where it’s shallower,” she advised pointing to right of the truck where it was considerably deeper as I had discovered earlier while wadding around in the water.
The impassive locals jumped out the back and began hooking us up with their rusty winch. Putting as much power behind it as possible, the overland just sank further. We were going to push. To be fair the men did it, I justified my non-participation by being more of a nuisance than any help. With more muscle, some well placed rocks and digging, we were eventually winched free an hour later. The beer belly guide took no chances and instructed his German troupe to take off their knee highs to wade over to the other side.

Bethanie

Another town built of dust and dirt, the welcome sign was sponsored by Coca-Cola. Is this not proof enough that Coca-cola was the first to circum-navigate the world? Bethanie is not so much a one street town but more like a one shop town. Houses seem to sprawl all over the dusty plain but there wasn’t an epicentre to it. A steeple church stood on a small hill, its smooth beige wall simple, windows polished and apart from a crucifix, nothing else adorned it. A church actually devoted to God, not profit and Bethanie is a town entirely faithful to the study and worship of God. Without knowing it, about thirty percent of the buildings in Bethanie are indeed churches. A missionary’s paradise with singing, praising and hands-in-the-air-waving, eyes shut in reverence at our Saviour, Lord Jesus Christ. With slim pickings in terms of weekend activities, there is plenty of time for spiritual devotion.
A couple of kids began loitering around the truck. They spoke little English but stuck out grubby hands in the universal kid speak for ‘give me candy’. Albert reprimanded them on the dangers of tooth decay before giving them a fruit gum each. As they sucked and chewed their sugary treat, Albert scrutinised their scalp. “Hhhmm, hair fungus. They have hair fungus.” Looking at their toothless smiles and bloated bellies covered by faded clothes; hair fungus was probably the least of their worries.

No Man’s Land.

Having left the church town of Bethanie behind to the ever present dust and childhood hair fungus, we continued towards Drifter’s Desert Farm or Peter’s Place. “You’ll laugh at the man as much as you will with,” Derick said this with admiration. “Just make sure you have Brandy. Never turn up without Brandy.” The plains transformed into rocky ridges and craters. Even with the rain, it was barren. I don’t even know when it happened but the clouds rolled in from somewhere and formed a veil over the hills ahead. Desert grass and shrubs were covering the range yet again. The path we were taking sloped so gentle I was unaware how high we were climbing. Winding our way up the gravel path, only possible with the morning sun baking out last night’s rain, we drove through the clouds. Incredibly surreal, the clouds were around us, swirling its grey tendrils around the rocky outcrop. Am I in Namibia or an unusually barren Moor? I half expected something tribal and ancient to descend over the hills and greet us. All too soon we emerged through the clouds to the other side flushed with a fading sun.
It flattened out dramatically and the road turned a burnt orange as we drove through a small town some thirty kilometres away from Peter’s Farm. What amazes me is that even for a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, quaint oasis style guest houses seem to generate enough business to survive.

Peter’s Farm

“I hope we are on the right driveway,” Derick said nonchalantly.
“What?! How can YOU not know?” I asked incredulously.
We had already let down the tires and slipping down a terracotta clay drive.
“Did you see a Drifters’ sign on the gate?”
“I saw no sign,” I answered with as much poise as I could muster.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing on it, whatsoever,” I had calmed down, after all the Namibians are friendly and the likelihood of being run off with rifle shots for trespassing would be slim. But all fears subsided when the next gate for me to open clearly had a Drifter’s sign on it.
Driving towards a plain concrete house with an underused swinging chair out the front, there was no sign of Peter as Derick ran in to gather the guestbook. The campsite came into view in the form of eight open rondavels at the base of a large pile of boulders. Our tents barely fitted underneath them but with a lot of toggling and scrapes, we managed. Satisfied with my efforts, I gritted my teeth when Nicole asked me for help to move hers. The wind was icy and rippled our tents. “I just don’t want to be blown away again,” she argued.
“I don’t think the wind is going to uplift you, two backpacks and three torches up over a ledge, through a tiny gap and down half a meter onto a flat field. Besides you are directly next to a boulder of mammoth proportions. You are not going anywhere!” Plus, I thought, you are no where near me, so it’s not my snoring you are worried about! “But still,” she pleaded with me. I caved and grabbed team America to help move her tent to another rondavel. Scratched by brambles, tired and a bit cold, I left them to peg down her tent and went to do what I like best, cook.

The fire lit, a braai grill ready to cook South Africa’s prime meats, I asked what I could do.
“Could you make coleslaw?” Derick asked pointed to the ingredients laid out and waiting for me to assemble them into something tasty.
“Sure.” I said reaching for the cabbage.
“The boys asked if they could help, but I told them to wait till one of the girls who knows how to make coleslaw.” I turned around and there was the ever dependable Alex waiting for instructions. What more could a sous chef want?

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance and blinked off as they parked behind our overlander. Peter Wolf had arrived. A thin man with cropped fair hair and hazy blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses he walked with the defiance of a boxer towards us clad in a Drifter’s issue green windbreaker. His face was lined with experience but there was a mischieveness only a boy could possibly own behind his eyes. He greeted Derick with a handshake and a hug then turned to us. The boys were staring at his thin pins sticking out of his shorter than short khaki shorts, while shivering in the icy cold Namib wind wearing half of their backpack wardrobe. Huddled around the fire, each of us reluctantly pulled our hands away to take his hand in a bone crushing, eye watering grip. The boys hid their surprise under the veil of manliness, while Nicole turned to me wide eyed and shook her hand trying to find some circulation.
“Those are the most boring Norwegian names I have ever heard! Hut tut tut tut!” he laughed and rocked back and forth on his heels looking over his land with pride. “The clouds were on the ground today,” he tutted and shook his head at the memory. “Ah! Thank you. Good Brandy,” he accepted the metal tumbler from Derick.
“Rain in Namibia,” he sighed. “Who would have thought it? Well, you won’t be seeing the leopard now.” The boys perked up their heads, leopards?
“Rain and a leopard in Namibia in the same week? Not that lucky!” Then came that laugh. “Heh heh heh heh, yessus!” He sucked on the brandy and coke and eased himself onto a fold out chair till dinner.

*
“So you have been on a Drifter’s tour before?” I nodded. He perused me up and down with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Let me guess, South Africa tour?” I raised my eyebrows, looked myself up and down.
“Pft! Southern Circle,” I corrected.
“Heh, heh, heh, yessus!” he laughed, more to himself then at me. I handed him a plate.
“Thank you, but ladies before gentlemen.”
“Mum taught me cooks go last,” I countered. He rocked back on his heels and cackled again. I wasn’t going to win this battle against two stalwart gentlemen and I am glad.
“What’s wrong with you?” He nodded his head towards Hendrik who was barely able to look down at what he was eating.
“I pulled my neck and I can’t look down, I can’t look up and it hurts all the time. I can’t look at my food, I can’t look at the stars…”he moaned while we all nodded our heads to that same Danish song. “Doesn’t matter about the stars, I don’t know what they are anyway…” he continued to babble.
“How will you find your way if you can’t read the stars?”
“Well, in the Military we have GPS,” Hendrik defended.
“Now look here son, what if a bullet went through your GPS, how are you going to find your way?” he argued pointing his knife towards the stiff necked Hendrik.
“I can read the stars in Denmark. I can’t read the stars here!” he argued lamely.
“Oh! So he can read the stars in DENMARK! That’s good if there was a war in DENMARK! What if the war was NOT in DENMARK?” We all laughed and team Norwegians continued to pick on poor Hendrik while Albert stoked the fire with a shovel sending smoke towards our direction. He had been doing this for a while. Pacing around his girl, leaning on the shovel then a stoke there and a stoke here to keep the fire going against a prevailing wind.
“If he keeps doing that, I am going to wring his little neck!” Peter muttered so only I could hear. I laughed under my breath.
“What are you laughing at?” he said defensively.
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” I explained.
“Heh, heh, heh, yessus,” he chortled back in approval.
“He’s been parading around like a peacock for the last 10min and has done nothing for the fire but send the smoke in every direction,” I had wanted to smack our paediatrician with the shovel a while ago. “Heaven forbid, he’s a doctor too.” Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Are you kidding me? Him?” I nodded. “What is it that you do?” I told him and he looked towards Hendrik. “Well, then why haven’t you fixed him then?”
“Oh she fucked him up worse!” Carl interjected. Peter looked at me with amusement and I shrugged my shoulders, making excuses would just make that hole deeper.
“I’ve got some bush medicine that would fix you. I’ll go get it,” he rose up on to his thin legs as Hendrik protested. “Look, it will fix you up good. It can fix anything even gout. Been making a whole batch at my place Heh heh, heh, yessus, it’ll fix you up good. Just a couple of drops and you’ll be turning your head every which way!” he slapped his thigh and rocked his head back in another cackle.
“He already has a remedy, alcohol and drugs. Lots of it,” Carl helpfully reminded Hendrik about the night down at the Orange River. But Peter went anyway.

Later after the dishes were done he strode up with a brown bottle and a canvas bag.
“Yessus, it will fix you good. Now stick out your tongue.” Hendrik did what he was told and gingerly stuck out his tongue with eyes closed tightly fearing the worse. With a steady hand, Peter dropped a few drops of his home brewed bush medicine. Blinking rapidly and smacking his tongue against his lips, Hendrik tried not to cough. “When does it start working?”
“When? I didn’t say anything about when it will happen!” He cackled at Hendrik’s disappointment and settled down with his brandy. The boys’ eyes widened as Peter dipped into his canvas bag and pinched some dried leaves onto a slip of paper.
“Don’t get too excited boys, it’s only tobacco,” Derick said accepting the hand rolled cigarette.
“I used to be a guide back in the day when overlanding was just a 4x4. Then Drifters bought me this farm and I couldn’t be happier,” Peter mused, blowing tobacco smoke from pursed lips.
“Did you pull any pranks on your clients?” I asked. Peter silently laughed his distinctive laugh to himself, eyes twinkling with school boy mirth in his eyes.
“Back in the day before they had the trucks, our trips were done in vans. You weren’t separated in a cabin like you are now. By the way boys, if you fart it goes straight to the front stronger than it is in the back…” we all laughed breaking his story and looked at Alex. Alex hooded and huddled, nodded his head in rueful acceptance.
“Dude, you have to get your stomach checked when we get back,” advised Harald
“Hehehehe, yessus!” he looked at Derick and then me, I nodded my head, remembering the eye crossing bomb that Alex had erupted on the first day.
“Anyway, back to the days when we were all together in a van, I would close my left eye, because the person in the far back corner could just see you, the driver, on the left. I would keep my right eye open, see like this,” and he closed his left eye and looked at each of us in turn with the right eye. “Then I would do this…” and he dropped his head to the left but keeping his right eye open. “Then I would start swerving the van across the road, like this…” and he crooked his arms as if holding a steering wheel and began turning them erratically side to side. “Hehehe, sure enough the person in the far left corner will shout ‘Oh my god! The driver has fallen asleep! No one is driving! The driver is asleep…hehehehe, yessus!!” he tipped his head back and slapped his knee.
Peter entertained us with stories of ‘Mitch’ the thirty-three year old Canadian who did everything wrong and Mr Shin and his ten amateur Japanese wildlife photographers with their bags of cameras and lenses of every description. A character in himself, Peter kept the stories coming as long as his tumbler of Brandy stayed topped up. He relived the ostrich attack on one of his workers that happened a few days ago, laughing before he had even finished the story.
“I rode an Ostrich,” piped Nicole.
“Did you lay an egg?” Peter retorted back quick as whip. “Hut tut tut tut,” he chuckled at his own quick wittedness. The brandy eventually dried out and the fire no more than some scattered embers. Standing up, he bade us a restful night’s sleep and walked away in the exact purposeful manner as he arrived.

*
Everyone woke up to the smell of bacon and the drizzle of rain. Slicing the tomatoes next to Derick, I looked at the grey sky and felt only one thing. “You know I feel like in this weather? Sweet corn and chicken soup,” I said. Derick’s face lit up in recognition of my mum’s universally loved recipe.
“I made it for a group once and put a bit of cinnamon in it, went down really well.” I tried not to have a small heart attack that he had tinkered my mum’s recipe.
“Oh we’re out of eggs though,” I said looking at our breakfast creation.
“Do we really need eggs? I’ve made them without before,” I stifled a cook’s primordial scream. The eggs were essential and if anything part of the secret to its success. Actually in my heart I feel that my mum’s recipe is perfect and there is no need to tinker, tweak or omit anything from it. If my friends were here, I can see them taking several steps back and carving Derick’s tombstone, all the while murmuring how they warned him about the dangers of messing with my family recipes. However, from one cook to another, I can appreciate we all have our idiosyncrasies. We agreed to ask Peter if he had any eggs, after all I couldn’t serve the man soup without my favourite part to it. His ears must have been burning because he strode through the drizzle as he did yesterday, with the same ruler straight crease down the middle of his shorts.
“Change of plans guys. With the rain, the walk is out. So that means we’ll do the game drive in two lots in my 4x4. You decide who is going first and who will go in the afternoon.” With that statement, I handed him a Drifter’s issue cup of coffee.
“Good amount of water, you didn’t fill it to the top,” he praised. Its Drifters issue, if you don’t get it right, well, at least there is caffeine in there.
“We’re going in the afternoon.” The boys announced so that left me, Nicole and team America to spend the morning with Peter.
“Fine. Boys, thanks for the dishes,” and with that I handed Alex a tea towel.

*
“I love this 4x4. It’s German which is why the driver’s side is on the left. Best thing about it, it has air con.” He put the land rover into gear and drove towards music mountain, “Ironic that the Germans put an air con in their cars and the Namibians don’t!”
He talked with unbridled enthusiasm. His depth of knowledge as a geologist, biologist and just someone that loves knowing why this world is shaped as it is, is something special. If I don’t remember much of what he said, it is because I was mesmerised by his passion and keenness to tell us all that he knew. More than anything, I wanted to know why these boulders were formed into piles. At music mountain, he explained the changes that alter the colour, the shape and as he threw a handful of pebbles into the mountain, the sound. Tinny, ringing and resonate the sounds reverberated around us.
“When they oxidise, they also change their magnetism. So your compass won’t work here, it will just go round and round,” he explained, rolling up a cigarette.
“With his GPS shot, not being able to read the stars and now his compass won’t work, Hendrik is seriously screwed out here, hey?” I commented.
“Hehehehe, yessus!” he laughed in agreement.

He pointed out the borders of his farm and Chocolate Mountain. “One day, it will no longer be that colour. You can see it happening already. The winds have blown seeds into the crevices, they germinate and eventually they will cover the entire hill. Won’t be able to call it Chocolate Mountain anymore then,” he mused. I wonder if he is talking more to himself than to us.
“Its shaped like a Hershey’s Kiss, so you will still be able to call it Chocolate Mountain,” he smiled and nodded his head at me.
“It must be nice to be here, with all of this. Thoughts clear, not having to listen to people be miserable about their petty problems…” I realised I was babbling out loud. Like a gentleman, he let me without argument or ridicule.
“I do like it out here, in nothing. I am not anti-social. Two Drifter’s trucks come in every week so there is always someone. But I can’t think of any place I would rather be. I can’t see another offer that will top this,” he confessed.
We drove on across Peter’s farm watching Gemsbok gallop across the plain knee deep in grass, ostriches running away in every which direction and a perigan swooping down in blur to pluck a social weaver out of mid air, soaring away into the distance. A little further on, a number of small black creatures bounded around. “What’s that?” Albert pointed at them. Grinding to a halt, he peered at them through his inch thick glasses.
“Bat-Eared Foxes. They’re playing. Now that is something special. A real treat that,” he sighed looking at the rare sighting of the highly shy nocturnal animals. It was a treat.

*
The game drive came to an end and Peter drove past his house to see some sneakers outside his open door. “Those boys better not have messed up my house!” he threatened lightly. He pointed to a stately tree beside his house. “Ironic,” he said. “Talking about invasives, this tree is actually from South America and suck up a lot of water, but they provide my house with shade.” Peter Wolf was born in South America but has made his home here in Namibia and truly, this majestic tree sheltering his home is the picture of the man himself.
“I’ll bring those eggs for you later. They’re big farm eggs; they will make your soup.” With that, he strode off. The sun had come won the duel with the clouds for the time being and I hoped for a decent shower. It was freezing but with the Namibian sky as my roof, it didn’t matter. Not an exhibitionist by any means, but I adore showering outdoors, with four walls of course. If some poor unsuspecting fool climbing the hill behind me looks down to cop an aerial view of my wobbly bits, then his misfortune. The boys were at the mercy of Peter and I set about warming up like a lizard on one of the boulders with my journal. A cool wind blew my hair gently across my face, sun warming the small of my back, I gazed across the plain. Just watching the clouds float by around the granite hills. Even with the explanation of how these boulders came to be here in a hilly pile, I still like to think they were a giant’s collection of pebbles. My mind drifted everywhere and nowhere. I didn’t have to think about tomorrow, or yesterday and in all honesty, I didn’t have to think much of now, that’s true freedom.

*
The thing about my mum’s soup is that it doesn’t need much preparation, just patience. I love making this soup and the way people enjoy it. It brings a wonderful comfortable and cosy sensation, like a hug from a mother. Standing and stirring the soup was where Peter found me.
“Here are your eggs, will they do?” It was a redundant question; he knew they would be perfect. He stood over me, memorising what I was doing. “I have been looking forward to this all day,” saying the words I love to hear when making my mum’s soup. He kept me company for a while and we talked conservation until his attention was taken towards the warm fire. The eggs were perfectly large with vivid orange yolks. I swirled them in, watching as the yolk laced throughout the soup and the whites floated up to the surface in bits and pieces of various sizes. Always my favourite part.
“I’m already coming back for seconds,” and for once both gentlemen were first to be served. I made sure of that. Huddled around the fire the soup kept us warm on the inside while the fire kept our hands from seizing permanently around the metal cups. Once again I was sitting next to Peter. There were fewer stories tonight; Peter had a busy day touting his tourists around his farm. He asked me for the recipe. He listened to me intently as I described the secret formula to it, the essential ingredients. This time it was me who was speaking with passion. Somehow we moved onto the topic of stories. “I love listening to people tell stories. I mean, everyone has a story and most of the time, its not what they are telling me that I am hearing but they way they are saying it,” he nodded as I babbled away. “Sometimes they sound hollow, some are pretentious with no meaning, some are full of passion and others are miserable, pain filled…” I don’t know how long he was listening to me or what I was saying but I must have told him that I loved to write.
“Any artist has to wear his or her heart and soul on their sleeve.” Before I could say anything, he stood up and said loudly “Well, you’ve got the job!”
“Pardon? I didn’t know I was being interviewed,” I replied lamely and a bit confused.
“Neither was I, until you made the soup,” he said triumphantly. I laughed.
“Are you married?” I shook my head.
“With soup like that and you’re not married? Hut tut tut.” He replied like it was a crime that someone had not married me based on my soup making abilities.
“So if I want to come back, I have to bring a pot of soup with me?” I teased.
“The gate is always open,” And with that, he bade us a final goodnight and strode out into the darkness with purpose, presence and definition as he entered, as he is.

---

Photos

Stuck
I should help... Harald: 'What's doing boys?'

Carl Pondering
Do you think we're stuck?

Definitely Stuck
'Yep, we're stuck, Harald. Let down the tyres... the tyres...'

PATROL
'Need a hand?'

Push
Come on guys, put a bit of man muscle behind it...

Where's the solidarity?
Alex: 'Look man, I'm done. We're doomed'

All together now, PUSH!
Okay one last time....

Job Well Done
and we're out.... 1hr later.

Outside Bethanie
Lunch by the side of the road. After a hard morning, the boys still have energy to open cheese and slice bread.

Driving through the clouds of Namibia
Am I in Namibia? Or some unusally barren English moor... the clouds swirled around with its grey tendrils...

Home Sweet Home for 2 nights
“I don’t think the wind is going to uplift you, two backpacks and three torches up over a ledge, through a tiny gap and down half a meter onto a flat field. Besides you are directly next to a boulder of mammoth proportions. You are not going anywhere!”

Music Mountain
...he explained the changes that alter the colour, the shape and as he threw a handful of pebbles into the mountain, the sound. Tinny, ringing and resonate the sounds reverberated around us.

Stories by the Fire
By the way boys, if you fart it goes straight to the front stronger than it is in the back
” we all laughed breaking his story and looked at Alex. Alex hooded and huddled, nodded his head in rueful acceptance.

Chocolate Mountain
Its just one big Hershey's Kiss

Tracks
Gemsbok tracks across Peter's sand dunes...

Hendrik Found His Way
“With his GPS shot, not being able to read the stars and now his compass won’t work, Hendrik is seriously screwed out here, hey?”

Peter's Pets
Ostriches on Peter's Farm, which tried to attack his workers yesterday...