Now look, we were caravan people. Camping people. Not that we never, for Mom’s sake and when we could afford, enjoyed the relative comfort of a rondavel, or even better, a chalet. However, I always preferred the caravan, with the tent (later with two extra rooms), at some new place and God willing, under the shade. A power point was not important. Call it voluntary load shedding. I have to add that one of my first presents of choice was a small, green two-man tent, and there in the town of Randfontein I often pitched it for the night – right next to the house. The bug has bitten me very early in life.
Rustenburg Kloof, Dragon’s Peak, Zinkwasi, Rob Ferreira, The Eiland, Badplaas, Goudini Spa, Santos at Mossel Bay, Bloudam between Randfontein and Westonaria – we were there. We even collected the name stickers that you could stick to the inside of the caravan window.
Back then, you were either Jurgens or Sprite people. Maybe an early introduction to the duality that has always been part of the Afrikaans psyche? It didn’t bother me; I was more interested in how people arranged their living areas and how they spent their time. Here I like to differ from our group’s philosophers and poets: “We are exactly like that” instead of “We are not all like that”. Embrace dualism, just saying.
It is difficult to talk about those memories without presenting them as a comparative analysis, or simply your own sentimental nostalgia. Let us be honest – it was a different time. To start with, the Rand was not in its glory. I am totally amased that my parents could manage to offer us children those adventures at all. I see on Eiland Spa’s website the name ‘toevlugsoord’ (place of refuge). Interesting word choice. It creates the expectation of a destination that offers something between escapism and influx. Maybe everyone is running from something … to something? Should you apply access control? But in the meantime, back to those memories ...
It triggers a lot of not-so-arbitrary thoughts, each a concept on its own: “Baby makes her Blue Jeans talk”, BZN, VanneMerwe corners, ablution facilities, potjie, smooching in the dark, pimples, foefie slides, super tube, Joof en sy maats books, swimming pool games, entertainment programmes, and car cricket. The list continues and everyone’s list would be different; mine is no exception. Organised fun. Although, there was something different; maybe that’s the reason why camping holidays made such an impression on my psyche. The closeness with your family. Primitive. Simple. Intimate. Despite internal politics, the spending of time together was precious. There was enormous pride when the camp was set up properly with Grandpa’s handmade tent pegs. To prepare food together. To put suntan lotion on Mom’s back, to realise Dad has an enormous snore, the day Mervan was stung by a bee and we only then realised that he is allergic, Rae-Dawn who burnt herself with a mosquito coil, me breaking my front tooth on the trampoline frame because of my wild summersaults. Somehow, we kept it together.