Our car broke down five hours into our trip from Paternoster to Namibia. The car began hissing and we lost power. Black smoke puffed from the exhaust. We pulled to the shoulder and opened the hood. The oil level wasn’t low. That was about the only thing we knew about cars. Luckily a road sign told us a place called Springbok was two kilometers away so we slowly coasted into town. Tom says Springbok is a frontier town. We brainstormed - with our limited knowledge - what the issue could be and decided firmly that the gas attendant at the petrol station 300km back had filled our car with petrol instead of diesel. The internet told us this would destroy the engine. I began brainstorming four month itineraries in New Zealand and Italy.
It was a Sunday, but we finally found a mechanic in Springbok. He’s currently working on our car in the auto body shop next to Caroline’s Take Away Cafe. He’s disheveled - hair as though he’s either just woken up or just never cared. His potbelly is a near perfect circle and hangs from the bottom of his shirt, the front of which is littered with holes and animal hair. His butt crack rises above his plaid underwear when he leans over the hood of the car which is almost too predictable to even include in this description. He’s still searching for the problem.
Why do we go on road trips? It must be to encounter the unknown, to experience the thrill of unpredictability, spontaneity. But really, why should that be enticing? When someone finds a destination worthy of travel, why not maximize the likelihood of arriving at that destination? Why would anyone plan a trip that deliberately tests their capacity to get to the very destination they set out to see? It’s a bizarre compulsion. But here we are, in Springbok - decidedly not in Namibia, the planned final destination for today. And we’re about to find out if the journey is indeed better than the destination.
Tom walked over to Caroline’s Take Away Cafe for his after-lunch coffee, but it was closed. We’ve been sitting outside for an hour watching people go in and out - under the 24 hour open sign, yet somehow we didn’t notice the shop close. Caroline's is a flat white building with Coca Cola signs plastered to the exterior and a large black box painted directly onto the stucco with the word “Specials” written on top but the rest of the box is blank. No specials. At least not today. Tom’s gone off to the next shop a bit down the road still in search of coffee. He’s already embraced what I’m refusing to acknowledge: it’s going to be a long afternoon.
We’ve been sitting outside the auto body shop for over two hours now. We don’t know our mechanics name because his Afrikaans accent was so thick we couldn’t understand his introduction. All we know is that he’s not Desmond - the mechanic we called. Apparently Desmond was asleep. The-mechanic-who-is-not-Desmond, two hours later, is still searching for the problem.
Springbok is famous for its wildflowers. In June and July. There was a caravan with an Afrikaans family parked nearby. Pieter, the father, came over to help with our car, but couldn't diagnose the problem. But he told us about the wildflowers. We’re about two months too late nearly, but Pieter and his family were caravaning around, themselves searching for the last remaining flowers of the season. They’re sleeping at the caravan park just a few kilometers down the road which is where we’ll stay if we need to spend the night. Too bad we can’t drive to see the flowers in the meantime.
The mechanic-not-named-Desmond finally calls us over to tell us that there’s a problem with a “valve” that can’t be fixed now (then he said some other words about cars that neither Tom nor I understood). He needs to work on the car properly and can’t do that until tomorrow. Off to the caravan site.
Pieter and his wife and daughter were at the caravan park when we arrived, eager for an update. We exchanged some niceties and then made our way to our lot. We unloaded our car and reorganized our things. We charged our electronics. We put up our rooftop tent. We had been at the mechanics well over three hours so by the time we got to the camp site and got organized the sun was already setting. We were just finishing up the final bits when Pieter and his daughter came over with two beers and a full plate of seeded bread topped with butter, sliced orange cheese and tomatoes. Seasoned with salt and pepper and arranged delicately in a circle around the plate, looking like the sun. Biltong piled up in the center. They had prepared us dinner. The kindness of strangers.
We stopped what we were doing and sat down on our foldable chairs next to our foldable table. We toasted to the trip and ate our dinner - and for the first time that day we were calm, no more decisions to be made. No more waiting for information. Tom commented on the quiet. It was peaceful.
We finished the last bits of set up and dug out the extra bottle of Storybook wine Muller had given us in Paternoster. We brought the bottle of wine and some glasses over to Pieter’s caravan and offered them a nightcap. Inside their trailer we drank together while Pieter boorishly tried to rip open a plastic container of mixed nuts from the wrong end. We talked about travel and cars and tried to avoid talking about Trump. We talked about their daughter's life in New Hampshire where she lives as a minister with her husband and two sons. I wondered if they were so kind to us because they are religious.
We left their caravan and climbed up the ladder for our first night in our tent. It was cold but cozy. Not surprisingly I didn't sleep.
Why do we go on road trips? It must be to encounter the unknown, to experience the thrill of unpredictability, spontaneity. But really, why should that be enticing? When someone finds a destination worthy of travel, why not maximize the likelihood of arriving at that destination? Why would anyone plan a trip that deliberately tests their capacity to get to the very destination they set out to see? It’s a bizarre compulsion. But here we are, in Springbok - decidedly not in Namibia, the planned final destination for today. And we’re about to find out if the journey is indeed better than the destination.
Tom walked over to Caroline’s Take Away Cafe for his after-lunch coffee, but it was closed. We’ve been sitting outside for an hour watching people go in and out - under the 24 hour open sign, yet somehow we didn’t notice the shop close. Caroline's is a flat white building with Coca Cola signs plastered to the exterior and a large black box painted directly onto the stucco with the word “Specials” written on top but the rest of the box is blank. No specials. At least not today. Tom’s gone off to the next shop a bit down the road still in search of coffee. He’s already embraced what I’m refusing to acknowledge: it’s going to be a long afternoon.
We’ve been sitting outside the auto body shop for over two hours now. We don’t know our mechanics name because his Afrikaans accent was so thick we couldn’t understand his introduction. All we know is that he’s not Desmond - the mechanic we called. Apparently Desmond was asleep. The-mechanic-who-is-not-Desmond, two hours later, is still searching for the problem.
Springbok is famous for its wildflowers. In June and July. There was a caravan with an Afrikaans family parked nearby. Pieter, the father, came over to help with our car, but couldn't diagnose the problem. But he told us about the wildflowers. We’re about two months too late nearly, but Pieter and his family were caravaning around, themselves searching for the last remaining flowers of the season. They’re sleeping at the caravan park just a few kilometers down the road which is where we’ll stay if we need to spend the night. Too bad we can’t drive to see the flowers in the meantime.
The mechanic-not-named-Desmond finally calls us over to tell us that there’s a problem with a “valve” that can’t be fixed now (then he said some other words about cars that neither Tom nor I understood). He needs to work on the car properly and can’t do that until tomorrow. Off to the caravan site.
Pieter and his wife and daughter were at the caravan park when we arrived, eager for an update. We exchanged some niceties and then made our way to our lot. We unloaded our car and reorganized our things. We charged our electronics. We put up our rooftop tent. We had been at the mechanics well over three hours so by the time we got to the camp site and got organized the sun was already setting. We were just finishing up the final bits when Pieter and his daughter came over with two beers and a full plate of seeded bread topped with butter, sliced orange cheese and tomatoes. Seasoned with salt and pepper and arranged delicately in a circle around the plate, looking like the sun. Biltong piled up in the center. They had prepared us dinner. The kindness of strangers.
We stopped what we were doing and sat down on our foldable chairs next to our foldable table. We toasted to the trip and ate our dinner - and for the first time that day we were calm, no more decisions to be made. No more waiting for information. Tom commented on the quiet. It was peaceful.
We finished the last bits of set up and dug out the extra bottle of Storybook wine Muller had given us in Paternoster. We brought the bottle of wine and some glasses over to Pieter’s caravan and offered them a nightcap. Inside their trailer we drank together while Pieter boorishly tried to rip open a plastic container of mixed nuts from the wrong end. We talked about travel and cars and tried to avoid talking about Trump. We talked about their daughter's life in New Hampshire where she lives as a minister with her husband and two sons. I wondered if they were so kind to us because they are religious.
We left their caravan and climbed up the ladder for our first night in our tent. It was cold but cozy. Not surprisingly I didn't sleep.
|
|
4pm the next day. We'd been in Springbok all day. Drop off car, coffee shop, walk, check on car, read magazine, write, eat lunch, check on car, write postcards, go to post office, check on car, walk, coffee, cake, check on car.
4.30. The mechanic-not-named-Desmond told us he finally finished putting the engine back together and now it’s time to test it. The big reveal. Tom jumped in the car for the test drive but came back minutes later shaking his head despondently. Same hissing sound. Our car is officially not going to be fixed. At least not today. I felt deflated. When the mechanic came back into the auto body shop I didn't make eye contact with him as an act of quiet protest. I wondered if it hurt his feelings. Then I wondered if he's ever been in love. I promptly felt bad for averting eye contact.
As we stalled our way through the day, we took coffee breaks every few hours at a cafe called Herbs Restaurant and Inn. The owner is a talkative -- too talkative? -- middle aged Afrikaans man who is proud of his restaurant, proud of his work ethic and proud of his determination to teach his kids about their bootstraps. His daughter-in-law waited on us and we told her our story. She was charming and we talked about our mutual desire to go to Egypt. She was heavyset and wearing a matching blue printed set of leggings and tank top. It had rhinestones on the front and some light beadwork. I think she was wearing blue eyeshadow that shimmered in the sunlight. Once we found out we were in Springbok for yet another night we drove straight back to Herbs Restaurant and she greeted us with a knowing smile as though she’d been waiting, aware of what we had been unwilling to acknowledge hours ago. She showed us to our hotel room and Tom endearingly asked her if she knew of any good restaurants nearby. That tickled me, even more when she responded by saying there’s one right next store but she’s heard they have bad reviews. We lightly chuckled together.
So again here we are. I don't know why we go on road trips. But I do know a road trip is an exercise in discipline. You need to get to a certain place by a certain time. You need to follow directions. You need to deflate tires for sand, and re-inflate them for tar. You have to be patient at check points, and border crossings, and when you get pulled over for speeding. You need to monitor the mechanics of your car. But there is emotional discipline too. You need to make a decision about how to handle the unplanned inconveniences. Yesterday was easy. Getting stuck had a thrill to it no matter how stale the environment, or how inconvenient it may have been. But the thrill quickly waned as time passed. And the real challenge set in - can I will myself into happiness when I really don't want to be in Springbok instead of Namibia now for two full days?
4.30. The mechanic-not-named-Desmond told us he finally finished putting the engine back together and now it’s time to test it. The big reveal. Tom jumped in the car for the test drive but came back minutes later shaking his head despondently. Same hissing sound. Our car is officially not going to be fixed. At least not today. I felt deflated. When the mechanic came back into the auto body shop I didn't make eye contact with him as an act of quiet protest. I wondered if it hurt his feelings. Then I wondered if he's ever been in love. I promptly felt bad for averting eye contact.
As we stalled our way through the day, we took coffee breaks every few hours at a cafe called Herbs Restaurant and Inn. The owner is a talkative -- too talkative? -- middle aged Afrikaans man who is proud of his restaurant, proud of his work ethic and proud of his determination to teach his kids about their bootstraps. His daughter-in-law waited on us and we told her our story. She was charming and we talked about our mutual desire to go to Egypt. She was heavyset and wearing a matching blue printed set of leggings and tank top. It had rhinestones on the front and some light beadwork. I think she was wearing blue eyeshadow that shimmered in the sunlight. Once we found out we were in Springbok for yet another night we drove straight back to Herbs Restaurant and she greeted us with a knowing smile as though she’d been waiting, aware of what we had been unwilling to acknowledge hours ago. She showed us to our hotel room and Tom endearingly asked her if she knew of any good restaurants nearby. That tickled me, even more when she responded by saying there’s one right next store but she’s heard they have bad reviews. We lightly chuckled together.
So again here we are. I don't know why we go on road trips. But I do know a road trip is an exercise in discipline. You need to get to a certain place by a certain time. You need to follow directions. You need to deflate tires for sand, and re-inflate them for tar. You have to be patient at check points, and border crossings, and when you get pulled over for speeding. You need to monitor the mechanics of your car. But there is emotional discipline too. You need to make a decision about how to handle the unplanned inconveniences. Yesterday was easy. Getting stuck had a thrill to it no matter how stale the environment, or how inconvenient it may have been. But the thrill quickly waned as time passed. And the real challenge set in - can I will myself into happiness when I really don't want to be in Springbok instead of Namibia now for two full days?