The morning after Servaas left Springbok was hot and windy, causing the old man to tuck his Kudu-ponytail under his helmet and ride along at the best possible speed to cool him down. Although his shoulder still bothered him, Servaas was determined to reach Clanwilliam in good time: he wanted to camp out somewhere in the Ceder Mountains, He had heard about the scenic beauty of the remote area and wanted to enjoy peace and quiet for a few days. He had biltong, a few bottles of Cactus Jack and a sleeping bag – what more could a man ask for?
Despite the heat and a swarm of locusts, he reached the gravel road to Uitkykpas by late afternoon, turned left, and started looking for a suitable place to settle down for the night.
Isn’t it strange to witness the changes in an older man once you put him on a motorbike? Add the ponytail, the desire to get away from it all and a few swigs of Cactus, and the pious elder becomes a rebel. That’s why, bike-tired and thirsty, Servaas skidded to a halt when he saw the sign on the gate next to the road.
ANC – PRIVATE – Keep Out.
You can say a lot about Servaas, but he’s not stupid. He knew all about the ANC. Did he not read about the gravy train, the leader’s lives of luxury, the lush parties? Surely anything that has to do with the political party should involve lots of food, soft beds and free booze? Anyway, what did PRIVATE mean? They represented the government and the government belongs to the people. In theory that means nothing about the ANC can be labelled as private, not so? If the government was there to serve the people, he, Servaas, was entitled to a slice of that service.
And so – ever the rebel – Servaas opened the gate and put-putted down the track. By then it was dusk was setting in, changing the mountains around him into dark shapes against the purple sky. Servaas thought it was rather eerie – almost spooky – but kept going until the night claimed the last of daylight. He realised he had to camp down where he was, or risk riding over a cliff or into one of the huge boulders that were strewn around.
Servaas stopped, sighed, spread out the sleeping bag and opened the Cactus. He’d explore the ANC-place the next day, absolutely sure that there would be a hearty breakfast and maybe some lodgings for a few days. While he was chewing on the biltong, he imagined hearing the sounds of a party far-off. Sound carries far in the silence of the great Ceder Mountains, and he distinctly heard laughter and sounds of revelry. Yes, he thought, tomorrow he’ll join them…
Sleep came slowly that night. His aching body just couldn’t find a comfortable position. Later, he gathered enough grass to create a make-shift mattress and folded his clean shirt to cushion his hips. Then he closed his eyes and imagined the soft beds the government would have supplied to the ANC camp.
Dawn found the old man next to a small fire, sipping Cactus and waiting for the light to improve. Soon the sun rose above the peaks, and Servaas started up the Enfield after loading his few belongings into the box he had mounted behind his seat.
It took another two hours of slow riding to get near the ANC camp. At first he only saw a lonely spiral of smoke curling into the sky, and later he heard voices. They were certainly not as boisterous as the previous evening, but when he stopped, he heard laughter.
“They are a happy bunch,” he thought, “which will make it easier to negotiate a few favours from them.”
Still listening – and trying to figure out where the people are – Servaas heard something else. The voices weren’t African voices. He found this strange, especially after he thought he heard an American drawl. Servaas loved the spaghetti-cowboy movies and admired Clint Eastwood as a gun slinging do-gooder. There could be no doubt – there were Americans around…
Dismissing the cowboy image, Servaas decided that the ANC must have invited a few American advisers to the country and were now treating them to a much-needed break in the mountains. That would, he realised, make it easier for him. The government would have to show how well they treat all citizens in the country and be forced to accommodate him. Politics, Servaas knew, involved the art of lying to everybody. So, even if the ANC wanted to turn him away, they just wouldn’t dare. Humming happily to himself, he set off again.
As soon as he saw the camp, he realised something was dreadfully wrong. He had imagined a lodge or a collection of modern chalets, mown lawns and umbrellas. The ANC should have waiters, luxury cars and a helicopter pad. He gaped at the four tents scattered in a haphazard way under some trees next to a brook, the smoky fire and the single coolbox next to a fold-up table.
And then he saw her,
The lady (there was no mistaking her gender) must have been about ninety years old. She was bending over the fire, stirring something in a biggish black pot. There was, Servaas thought, several things wrong with the picture. Not only was the lady white, she was also completely naked.
Servaas had seen naked people in the past. Servaasie, when he was born. Glimpses of Siena on their honeymoon in Margate. And once, just after the Oasis Casino had opened, he sneaked into one of those movies. But this woman, whose anatomy had given up the fight against gravity a long time ago, was nothing like he had ever seen (or imagined) before. Then, while he was still staring at the woman in horrid fascination, he saw a man join her next to the fire. He was even older and dressed – if wearing a Stetson counts as being clothed.
Had the ANC gone mad? Servaas shook his head and tore his eyes from the couple. Only then did he see the minibus. An old one, with an emblem on the side.
When Servaas tells this story in Boggel’s Place, he is rewarded with a gust of laughter every time. To stumble upon the group of people must have been quite something, Vetfaan will say, shaking his head. Gertruida – who knows everything – usually then says it isn’t such a strange thing: people all over the world do it. They should be left in peace, she tells them, because they are discreet and harm nobody. Oudoom will then object, muttering about the morals of the world decaying at an alarming rate.
But Servaas? He remembers the breakfast he had with the Alabama Nudist Club with a smile. They turned out to be extremely accommodating, inviting him to stay for a few days.
Did he stay? Did he go?
Servaas isn’t saying, but the glint in his eyes should tell you something. He’ll never mention the old couple’s three granddaughters, nor the way he introduced them to Cactus Jack. Bikers are like that, especially when they get older. The young ones brag about their adventures in graphic details. The older – wiser – biker will tuck his Kudu-ponytail under his helmet, smile at the memories, and tell you just enough to make you jump to your own conclusion. Sometimes that’s even better than the real thing…