Dirt road to Nowhere

We hit it pretty hard, hard enough to lift me from my seat and send my head crashing into the roof above. The car lurched over the rocky obstruction and came to an immediate halt in the middle of the single lane dirt track. Jurgen turned the engine but it just wheezed in reply. An inspection under the bonnet proved fruitless and mobile phone signal had long since evaporated since we left the tar road some 50km back. We were stuck, on a Sunday, a long way from anywhere. We'd encountered just three cars in a morning of driving and the last populated property we'd passed was, we estimated, some 5-10km behind us in the base of the deep valley we had just climbed out of.

I'd been invited on the drive the evening before, taking off inland with Alison and Jurgen in search of the wide open spaces of the Kloof and the wild Africa I'd heard, seen and read about, and longed to explore. The potholed dirt road had taken us far from the urban surrounds of the coast and lead us into the stunning landscapes of the interior, as impressive in their size as in their all-consuming emptiness. Fertile river valleys split steep mountain passes. Vast rock faces strewn with the sparse, wiry stubble of Fynbos gave way to stretches of open plain, where dust trails from donkey carts in the far distance were the only other evidence of a human presence.

Between us we had three phones but all were useless in the absence of network coverage. The GPS on the dash informed us of our position but we were unable to reach anyone to request help. The onboard computer informed us that something in the engine had gone wrong but, without the necessary mechanical knowledge, we were powerless to repair it ourselves. We needed assistance and it was increasingly obvious that help wasn't about to happen upon us.

With this in mind, Jurgen struck out for the last house we had passed, hoping to find at least a landline and the possibility of a tow before dark. I watched Jurgen's shimmering outline slowly disappear into the horizon and soon fell asleep on the soft sound of the breeze until an approaching car woke me from my daze. A ragged landcruiser pulled up next to us with three men crammed across the front bench seat. It was Jurgen accompanied by two burly and well weathered farmers - father and son - on whose land we had broken down.

As they jumped down from the car my gaze was immediately fixed on the pistol holstered to the waist of the father. The chamber was full and several disconcertingly large bullets were lodged into the leather gun belt: leopard problems apparently. Both men wore ragged denim shorts, heavy duty and well-worn boots, wide brim leather hats and frayed short sleeve polo shirts. Their handshakes were firm and uncomplicated, the skin on their hands tough and calloused. What they must have made of us, standing stranded in our flip flops, long shorts and branded t-shirts, who knows, but the 50km of Kloof that separated us geographically bore no representation of the real gap that existed between us.

They made for the forlorn looking engine block, talking in thickly accented English as they set about the engine with a methodical precision that encouraged a quiet optimism as we peered in from the sides. For the most part they worked in silence broken only by the odd prompt from the father to his son. They worked as a pair, with an understanding built from many years of working the land together as a family, and though they seemed hardened on the outside they exuded a warmth towards us, happy for the opportunity to help a stranded stranger or perhaps at the chance to interact with passers by; Theirs was the only inhabited house in the surrounding area. The next nearest town, which they visited once a month to restock with any essentials, was some 40km away. They had no landline, no computer and no way of contacting the outside world unless they made the drive. They were entirely self-sufficient, entirely responsible for their own health and wellbeing and reliant on nobody else but themselves.

'What if you need help?' I asked.
'Why would we need help?' came the simple, straight-faced response.

They lived a life far removed from the society we knew, and I envied them. All three of us did. There was a purity and peacefulness in their lives that in some form or another we all dream of finding one day. But we struggle as we live in a society where marketers and advertisers bully us into thinking we can't look after ourselves and that we need their support and their products if we are to survive. A society of 24-hour on-call assistance, rapid response and a quick fix to the simplest of problems, all covered by the disposable income TV and Magazines convince us we need if we are to fit their vision of the successful modern adult. A society that appropriates a sort of material ignorance and encourages us to doubt ourselves where we would be quite capable on our own if we just put in the time and effort.

'OK, try now'.

Jurgen turned the engine over and it sparked first time. We asked what we could get them in return but they said they needed nothing; they just smiled and shook our hands. Jurgen and Alison left their number and address in case they should ever venture to the coast, unlikely, as it had been years not months since they last went that way.

We said our goodbyes and jumped back in the car. As we pulled away I waved from the window, the father returned the gesture and turned to walk back to his car. But his son stood forward and held our gaze for a while longer, sadness in his eyes as we slowly pulled away and finally lost sight of him as we rounded the next corner. I thought of the enthusiasm with which he spoke to me when we finally found common ground  my uncle used to be a sheep farmer in the Australian bush  and wondered what he must have seen in us, and of the lives we live.