Tale guide

Carry on camping!

Caravanning , not for the faint hearted

Alright, alright. I will admit that I may have made a few mistakes that undermined my ‘Bushman’ persona, while Ann has always maintained, without a shred of evidence at least, that I need some guidance in that department.

I’ve often wondered if only we had Google in those days.

It was our very first caravan. Although a second hand, five-year-old Sprite Alpine, which was well used, it was in reasonable condition.

We had spent a little to clean it up and made sure everything was in its place and working before deciding to venture out to the nearby Loskop dam, just north of Pretoria, on a practice run.

Before leaving, we stocked up on a selection of foods as one does. Flour, milk, eggs, butter, sugar, tea and coffee, as well as meat, charcoal and wine amongst an oversupply of canned foods and accoutrements (as one does).

Enough in fact to feed us for the winter let alone two nights and ten miles from home. The milk, eggs and butter were amongst the items we placed in the standard fridge that was mounted just inside the door of the van.

Despite warnings to the contrary, I placed the eggs neatly in the egg trays provided for in the fridge door. I noticed at the time, that someone had screwed a hasp and staple on the fridge door, which was designed to take a padlock, but at the time I thought that as we were the only occupants, it was a little crazy to actually lock the door! “I mean who would steal the contents?” I asked myself.

Towing the caravan turned out to be a breeze and the trip on the open road to the park went uneventfully. In fact, the journey simply improved my confidence and confirmed that this was certainly something I could manage quite expertly.

Loskop dam caravan park was a municipal park in those days comprising immaculately maintained lawns under large shady trees on the edge of the crystal-clear waters of the dam, with plenty of space to accommodate the most luxurious of caravans and tents.

Once we entered the gates, we followed a narrow gravel road that wound itself around the park providing easy access to any of the many sites available on a first come, first serve basis.

Every twenty meters or so in the road, we encountered quite an imposing speedbump probably intended to prevent speeding and ensure the safety of campers and children in particular.

The car and caravan mounted the speedbumps one by one; front wheels up, back wheels down; back wheels up, caravan tow hitch down; tow hitch up, back of caravan down; front of caravan down.

We pulled onto a site and I was able to position the caravan under the shade of a large evergreen and from my position inside the vehicle, I considered the one parking movement a pretty professional accomplishment. However, once we alighted, it became apparent that the ground on which I had parked was not entirely level and that it would require some adjustment on the shoreside to bring the caravan onto a level footing.

Ann unlocked the caravan door and stepped inside. It was at this early stage that a couple of campers wandered over to us and extended a very warm and friendly helping hand which I was inclined to accept.

But before I could respond to the offer, Ann called me to the door.

“Do not accept their offer of help!” she ordered in an urgent whisper.

“Why not?” I asked perplexed.

“You don’t want them to see the inside of this van,” came the reply. “Just trust me!” she urged.

“Thanks chaps,” I said to our new neighbours. “That’s very kind of you but I’ve got this,” and they shrugged their shoulders and went their way with a friendly wave.

When I stuck my head through the door it looked like world war one had played out inside. The cupboard doors had been flung open and flour and sugar, amongst others, had been strewn across the length and breadth of the cabin. To make matters worse, the unlocked hasp had slipped off the staple and the door of the fridge had swung open and had continued to swing back and forth over some period of time.

Eggs had been launched in various directions and milk had fallen over. The liquid mixture, that resembled a very large portion of scrambled eggs,  had mixed with the flour and sugar like a long lost family reuniting in the trauma!

“You stupid…..,” I can’t say what Ann called me ‘cause this is a family blog and besides which, some things are best left unsaid.

I did however cotton on to why Ann wanted me to avoid the embarrassment of clearly demonstrating the incompetent amateur that I clearly was. (Where is the ‘we’ in this story?)

Eventually and a good hour later, the inside of the caravan was returned to almost normal, and I went back to the leveling task, winding down the stabiliser legs and confirming that we were level front to back and side to side using a handy spirit level.

Then came the tent.

Well, this was supposed to be pretty easy. We had already had the benefit of watching a couple pull up across the way, quickly take out their tent and while the chap fed the guide rope at the one end of the canvas into the awning rail on the caravan and swiftly pulled the tent edge through the rail to the opposite side, his wife ensured the tent unfolded with practiced ease. It took less than two minutes. Slick as a snake in a sewerage pipe! No problem whatsoever!

I unfolded our tent and thread the guide rope into our awning rail and started to pull it through. I made it to about half a meter along the rail before the rope held tight and wouldn’t budge any further.

I could bore you with a ball-by-ball description of the events that followed in the hours that past but suffice to say that after much heaving and pulling in which we both lost much of the skin off our fingers, we got the tent erected.

In mitigation, I submit that upon our return to the caravan shop the following week, we discovered that the rope they had provided us was too thick for our van’s guide rail and needed to be replaced with one that could slide through the rail.

But, while sitting, exhausted and out of breath under the tent, I had come to realise that I wasn’t as experienced at this camping lark as I had initially thought.

The next morning, when the sun rose in the east, I also realised that I had positioned the caravan and tent in the worst position possible in relation to the African midday sun.

Basically, the only benefit we enjoyed from the wide, shady canopy of the tree under which I had parked, could only be enjoyed after dark, as the caravan and tent had been perfectly aligned to capture direct sunlight all day long!

We learnt many a sound lesson on that very first outing and indeed, the longer we travelled, the more practiced we became.

Notwithstanding, a few years later, while touring Namibia, we stopped over at a camp site on a ranch in the Khomas Hochland mountains.

The site was spotlessly clean, covered in rich green lawns that the farmer kept in pristine condition with an irrigation system. I use the word ‘ranch’ intentionally because in Namibia, they are so big that they simply cannot be placed under the ‘farm’ category.

Huge expanses of land on which sheep and/or cattle mingle with indigenous wildlife way out on the lands, year in and year out, with very little interference other than by marauding leopard that live in the mountains and occasionally descend to catch a lamb or two.

On one occasion in my early years, I went out with a farmer on horse back to inspect leopard traps he had set high in the foothills. It took us the best part of three days and two nights to complete the trip and return to the homestead. It is a wild, untamed land, utterly captivating in its harsh beauty and imposing in its enormous, never-ending vastness.

But I digress. On the occasion of our camping trip, we stayed on this ranch a couple of nights and from that base we travelled into the country’s capital Windhoek and explored the surrounding sights.

On that trip we had a steel trunk in which we kept all our perishables and while in camp I always put the trunk under the caravan, out of the way. The trunk also had hasp and staples which I would lock, however, on this occasion I forgot!

As we set out, Ann said “Have you locked the trunk?”

“No,” said I, “but don’t worry, it will be quite safe way out here on the farm!”

Mistake!

During the day, while we were savouring the delights of German beer and cuisine in the city, a troupe of baboons descended on our campsite, found the trunk and ingeniously unclipped the hasps and had a field day with the contents.

On our return to camp, we found the pristine lawns covered in bright red tomato sauce and an assortment of coloured powders left as a greeting card from the visitors we never actually got to see.

To make matters worse we were with two good friends of ours that had taken a decision to venture out into the unknown under my leadership as they believed that it would be a safe bet with a bushman as experienced as I. The incident must have caused them a moment of concerned reflection at a time when it was difficult to turn back.

As mentioned before, eventually, over time, I’m pleased to say, we did become accomplished travelers. But not nearly as seasoned as some we encountered along the way.

Be prepared!

On one occasion we had set up camp at Crocodile Bridge in the Kruger National Park.

I had positioned the caravan close to a water tap onto which I had screwed our hosepipe in order to get running water into our own taps.

We were quietly sitting under the awning enjoying a sundowner and watching some Impala in the veld beyond the fence, when a substantial looking camper van pulled up with what looked more like a horsebox in tow.

The camper pulled into the stand diagonally opposite us and the couple disembarked.

The couple themselves were something to behold. In their mid-fifties, the lady was colossal, and her husband was a slight, nondescript gentleman, at least a foot shorter than the lady and half her weight. But the thing that struck me was the fact that the gentleman was dressed in long grey flannels, a white shirt and a tie and the woman, a flowing, grey cotton dress one would expect her to wear to work in the city!

The woman strode purposefully towards the tow-hitch connecting the horsebox to the camper and with little effort, unhitched the trailer, lowered the wheel and swung it sidesways on, as if it were a toy.

This she did while hubby looked on. Until, that is, she barked at him in Afrikaans to plug the camper into the power socket, whereupon he scurried away to do her bidding.

We watched, silently bemused at the antics unfolding before us.

Once a nylon mat had been rolled out and two camping chairs and a table set down, the aunty turned back to the ‘horsebox’ trailer and with a flurry, opened a set of double doors mounted in the side facing us.

I’m not sure what we were expecting but whatever it was, we had it totally wrong.

She lent into the trailer, wrapped her gigantic arms around the object inside and out came an old fashioned, twin-tub washing machine in a single, flawless movement.

This she plonked down on the grass and connected the electrical cable to the power point. Then she picked up the hosepipe that was connected to the machine, strode across the path to our site, unclipped our hose from the tap and clipped hers on.

Without so much as a ‘howdie doodie,’ she called out in Afrikaans, “If you need water, you can just disconnect!”

I chose not to need water until she packed her twin tub back where it belonged later that night!

Sure enough, the very next morning, the Aunty and Uncle stepped out of their camper dressed for church before leaving for a day of game viewing in the park.

‘Aitsa!’