Guest post by Tracy Wynter.

There are some things that money simply can’t buy: the ticking of your vehicle’s engine right after you’ve switched it off after reaching your holiday destination, just before you start unpacking, in that happy moment knowing that you’ve finally arrived; the deafening silence of a Karoo afternoon, holding its breath as the clouds gather, teasing with the promise of rain; the deliciously grassy fragrance of a horse’s breath, tickling your nose as your lean your head against its face; the reflection of the flickering fire on a half empty glass, when everyone is fed, tummies are full and all the problems of the world have been solved around that very fire ….

This is one of those moments. A moment when all is still, save the occasional call of an unidentified drab little bird, and the persistent buzzing of a hopeful fly. The Tankwa Karoo provokes reflection and introspection – this is not a place for the restless and easily bored, those who need to keep moving and ticking boxes in order to have their holiday dreams fulfilled. It may lack the drama and flamboyance of the Tsitsikamma, the showiness and overabundance of Addo and the gentleness of the grassy plains of Cradock. This is a place that somehow seems a little reluctant to share its magic; until you’re still, that is, and start to appreciate it for its spartan, rugged beauty.

We spent a magical long Easter weekend here, exploring the park, getting to know its quirks, its desolation and arid starkness. Having spent a few days here a year ago, we set out to explore it to its fullest and to recharge our (seriously drained) batteries. Caden’s flute went with us, partly to give him some practice time ahead of upcoming exams, but also as a bit of an adventure, to see in what weird and wonderful places his musical journey will take him.

So much space and endless views

Of slight concern on this trip of ours, was the puzzle of what our thirteen year old would find remotely entertaining, given the isolation, lack of accompanying friends and most concerning of all, the lack of device-charging power…  Since the average cell phone or tablet battery (apparently critical for teenage mental and social health) is destined only to last a day at most, the ensuing 5 days were worrisome. Contingencies were made, and remade; a book was packed (who knew if said teenager would be literate enough, or even inclined, to read); a spare car battery with complement of cables for charging all devices known to man was installed in the Ranger, and a collection of relics only identifiable by the parents of the teenager, ie playing cards, Rummikub and Jenga, were packed in the hopes that they may prove useful in a boredom meltdown.

Tech free entertainment – our cairn is the tallest!

The unthinkable happened – no-one, not even the reluctant teenager, was bored! In the interests of full disclosure though, Caden has an enviable ability to get on with life, despite its many and varied curveballs. Undoubtedly he would have loved to have a friend along for the trip, but, despite being closeted with two old farts in a desert for 5 days (I know, that sounds like the title of a movie), he managed incredibly well. Between the joys of looking for scorpions with a UV light at night (Parenting 101, not); horsing around in the tiny splash pool at the cottage; hopping, balancing and climbing on everything imaginable to hone his rock climbing skills, and just generally exploring the intricacies of the desert, he somehow just found things to do. As the Aussies say: nose down, bum up; and, at great risk of embarrassing him, he did read, lots, and we did indeed play Rummy, lots and lots…

Fun in our dip pool at Elandsberg

What one forgets about the Karoo is its vastness, how getting from one place to another is not to be undertaken lightly, distances not to be underestimated. Popping out to buy bread and milk requires some logistical planning and consideration. Forgetting to buy the milk is a serious problem, if, like me, you’re somewhat averse to the synthesised, pasteurised-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life stuff found in cardboard boxes on supermarket shelves, and which can safely be hoarded until the next millenium.

The vastness of the Karoo

Compounding the milk nightmare would be forgetting the filter coffee. And the go-everywhere-survive-a-nuclear-blast-without-a-dent coffee plunger. Ask my husband. This happened on one of our Addo camping trips. All seemed well with the world – we were in a convivial mood after a happy evening with camping buddies, when one of us (namely me), being an early riser, duly arose to put on the kettle to make coffee and kick the day off to a fine start. The happy moment lasted as long as it took to discover that both coffee pot and coffee were forlornly sitting at home in Port Elizabeth. Murray, a not so early riser, somehow sensed an impending domestic storm and averted disaster by rounding up take-aways at 07:47 from the rest camp restaurant (note: the restaurant only opens at 08:00, but the expression of desperation on his face induced great pity in the staff and an early opening). It was either that or drive home to retrieve the coffee. This domestic crisis-aversion tactic could never happen in the Tankwa. The nearest coffee pot retailing metropolis is a three hour round trip away over some fairly rough terrain, barring unforeseen eventualities like shredded tyres and roads that turn into slick mud baths after a sprinkling of rain, just begging to stall the trip. Take-home message: become a list person, and don’t forget the coffee.

On the subject of planning, fuel is a worthy consideration when traveling in the Tankwa. The three hour gas-guzzling leg from the last fill-up in Laignsburg to the Tankwa Karoo National Park should give one pause for thought – just there and back in our super-thirsty Ranger is a tank draining trip, so any driving around in the park will soon have one sweating, wishing desperately for the sight of even one lonely roadside pump. Which brings us to Middelpos.

En route to Middlepos

Middelpos is a spectacular climb away, up the Gannaga Pass onto the Roggeberg escarpment, about an hour’s drive from the park. It’s a village (OK, a dorpie) that few will have heard of, much less visited. It’s a place seemingly frozen in time; where the road in and out is a dusty track; where the company vehicle is a horse, and where the post-office is part of the general dealer. There are no traffic lights or even stop signs, although a beautifully landscaped and well-tended little circle attempts to direct traffic through the village. One has to wonder though what sudden peak of vehicular activity through Middelpos prompted the need for a traffic circle, or whether it was simply optimism on the part of the town planners!

The retail outlet of choice in Middelpos (actually, the only retail outlet) is the originally named Die Winkel, selling everything from dishwashing liquid and toothbrushes, to tinned pilchards, Blitz and garbage bags sold in singles, and those wonderfully old-fashioned apricot sweets that are a trademark of any good Karoo store. The onions were sold out, but proudly displayed were 2 bags of potatoes, a spectacular pumpkin, and intriguingly, something called ‘Imitation Vinegar’. I can’t begin to imagine what one does with imitation vinegar. Sweeties and community-sized bags of chips are dispensed from behind the old wooden counter (yes, really); eggs are odd-sized, still slightly poop-besmeared and obviously free-range; and best of all, next to the dusty sidewalk, is that most wonderful of sights for the fuel-starved traveller: a diesel pump.

The fuel station in Middelpos

Middelpos is a slightly surreal experience that has you feeling as though you got stuck in a time warp. We heard from the park receptionist that if the diesel pump is abandoned, simply go and ask for help at the hotel – the owner of both the shop and the hotel are one and the same. Caden indulged in a marshmallow egg to celebrate Easter, forevermore known as a Middelposeier. We found a bar or two of cell reception (isn’t that reason in itself to visit Middelpos?) and phoned family to check on everyone’s general health and well-being – especially that of the long-suffering, house-sat dogs. The village has that recently-swept feeling; yards are neat and hens cluck contentedly, and diesel is a cash-only transaction. People here greet you with a smile and give you the time of day, but one is reminded that eking out a living in this unforgiving land must be a daily challenge, not for the faint-hearted.

The Gannaga Pass

The Gannagapas drive will forever be etched in my memory as the road that has achingly beautiful endless views over the vastness of the Karoovlaktes; where a ‘road narrowing’ sign simply means that the track has washed away and certain death is only centimetres away from your outermost tyres; where meeting an oncoming vehicle requires everyone to stop and assess the situation, before a cautious, nail-biting by pass. It’s the place where our son sat on a rocky outcrop, the sun on his back and the arid plains stretching far below and played his flute as though no-one else could hear him.

Caden playing his flute along the Gannaga Pass

The stark outcrops and buttresses of the Roggeberg take on a life of their own, becoming more and more familiar as one gets to know them. From our cottage we could see in the distance the winding, dusty Gannagapas road, inching its way up the escarpment. A large pale scald mark on the flanks of the mountain become the ‘tear in the universe’, according to our all-knowing teenager. Occasional jet trails scar the vast blue skies, rending them in two. At the top of the Gannaga Pass nestles the Gannaga Lodge. This oasis of civilisation sports accommodation, a restaurant and a very well-supported pub. Only here would we eat tender skaapstertjies, our fingers greasy and shiny as we nibbled our way through the delicately Karoo-flavoured meat, gazing at the rolling mountains and gathering clouds. Yes, you’ll find a cold beer or a G&T if that tickles you, and a selection of wines from the Breede River wine district. As our host proudly mentioned, they only stock local wines. I’m beginning to understand that ‘local’ in the vastness of the Tankwa Karoo is anything within a 500km radius…

Gannaga Lodge

A slightly sore topic comes to mind: power. Not horsepower, energy drinks or anything equally mundane. I mean Eskom power – 220 volts to be exact. The conversation at home started off something like this. “Do you think I should pack my hairdryer, Luv?” I asked. “No need,” said my beloved “there’s no power.” And thus was precipitated a domestic situation, the magnitude of which can only truly be appreciated by those of us with unruly hair, married to someone with no hair and therefore no need for this critical appliance. A year ago the chalets at the Elansdberg rest camp were sans power, delightfully rustic but hair drying was undertaken by the warm light of day in a stiff breeze – functional, but the effects were not flattering. On arrival, our eagle-eyed thirteen year old spotted a plug point, his powers of observation being directly proportional to the need to charge his cell phone.  Thereafter followed a strained silence as both adult parties realised the immediate advantage of this, while at the same time remembering that hairstyling salvation lay 800km away…

Enjoying the view from Elandsberg, with au natural hair

The roads of the Tankwa Karoo are worthy of special mention. They undulate across the plains, and wind around hills and koppies, mysteriously disappearing into unfathomable distances, urging the traveller to explore. The romance lasts as long as it takes for the rubber to leave the tar. An indescribable assault of bone-jarring, teeth-rattling, vehicle-destroying corrugations catches the unwary traveller by surprise. You’ll find yourself clutching onto a grab handle with one hand while trying simultaneously with the other to keep your contact lenses from popping off your eyeballs and stopping  the rear-view mirror from nodding wildly like one of those little noddy dogs seen on the rear shelf of old cars. Fun.  Thankfully, Miss Daisy, our rather stately Ranger, in all her middle-aged glory, has proved a reliable soul, taking the inhospitable terrain in her stride. The 2017 trip taught us more than a few things about being self-reliant, but amazingly this year we didn’t have a single puncture. Murray, who I’m convinced is secretly hoping to drive the Dakar one day when he’s big, didn’t have to break out his tool kit once – I suspect he’s almost a little disappointed…

A strange name for a desert road

There are several 4×4 trails in the park, of which we did two. The Elandsberg trail up to the lookout point is definitely worth it for the view from the top, but the track, while not technical, is littered with rocks that make it a bumpy, toe-curling ride. On a quiet, wind still day we sat there lost in thought and listened to the eery, melancholic sound of a flute drifting over the desert, as our son played to a pair of crows and a heart-rending view.

The Leeuberg 4×4 trail

The Leeuberg trail was featured in a magazine recently and so, on a whim, as one does, we headed off into the desert to find it and see for ourselves what all the hype was about. We’ve done a 4×4 course, and a fair bit of off-roading in varying terrain – we know stuff, we thought. It’s a spectacular trail, following the ridges of a small, narrow mountain, topping out at conical points where you teeter with the slopes falling away on all sides. Not entirely clear from the article though is that there are places where the ascents are so steep that the bonnet of the vehicle angles steeply into space as though from a launch pad, the road dropping away unseen from beneath one. The descents, following the laws of nature, are equally stomach-churning, but the views outweigh the terror, and we were rewarded with the red and gold hued desert plains stretching mile after mile into the haze.  And once again, from the very top of the highest peak, the haunting notes of a solitary flute blew away on the breeze…

At the top of the highest peak

On this occasion though, at the top of the very highest point on the trail, the poetry of the moment was interrupted by a sulphurous vapour emitted by the ever-present (in our family) kosblikkie. Padkos is something close to my heart, and no excursion, no matter how small, is tackled without padkos. We barely make it to Woolies without a packed lunch, but such are the habits of a partly Afrikaans upbringing. On this notable occasion, standing on this peak of the Leeuberg trail recovering our inner peace after a particularly fiendish ascent, the kosblikkie was opened, and the Road Eggs unveiled. Road Eggs have become synonymous with travel – little parcels of hard-boiled perfection, lightly dusted with a sprinkling of homemade smoked chilli salt. How could one resist? No dubiously blue-green bouncy Dr Seuss eggs these, but rather a silky white glistening egg, within nestles the glorious orange yolk, just this side of completely set. The clincher though, is that we’ve discovered that the humble Road Egg becomes a thing of great culinary delight when eaten in a place that fills one with happiness.

On the topic of food (a subject eternally close to my heart), we have established a Tankwa tradition: potbrood. It began with the realisation on our previous trip that the closest Woolies food store is roughly 400km away, and that by day four our bread may start looking a little furry. Bread being the staff of life, in my opinion, the horror of a breadless holiday was simply too awful to contemplate (sorry Banting devotees, life is just too short to give up carbs). And so armed with our very own cast iron bread pot, and a packet of flour and yeast, I set out to do what my maternal fore-mothers have done quite successfully for centuries, and bake bread on the coals. Although, happily, I didn’t let ouma-grootjie down, I have realised that there’s a lot more to baking bread over a fire than anyone lets on. No quick mix, throw it in a pot and leave it for an hour – it’s an endless labour of love, of kneading, proving, watching the dough like an anxious hen waiting for her eggs to hatch, fine-tuning the coals, berating one’s husband for not achieving the right amount or exact temperature and precise positioning of the coals, etc, etc. The pitfalls are many and deep. However, absolutely nothing on earth beats the yeasty aroma of freshly-baked bread, steam drifting up as you cut through its golden crust and slather on shamefully large quantities of lemon-yellow butter, topped with the deep crimson of a good berry jam, and perhaps a sprinkling of sharp vintage Cheddar… Go on, you know you want to give it a try.

Harsh, arid land

As much as the Tankwa plains may sound dreamily romantic and lyrical, hardship is evident everywhere. The dry, crumbling earth, the vast sandscapes sometimes filled with nothing more than scattered shiny chocolate brown rocks, worn smooth by the relentless wind, and the occasional skeletons of antelope, some lying next to water holes, are stark reminders that life here is tenuous. Look closer though, and you may find the tiniest of green shoots, hopeful little leaves coming to life after a recent rainfall. Seemingly dead, withered stalks and twigs, resembling giant stems of ginger, somehow restore themselves after a live-giving shower. The animals and plants have been defined by this demanding, uncompromising landscape – there is no surplus, no abundance, but for the lucky and tenacious few, enough to get by and perhaps even to thrive.

Gemsbok in the desert

The Tankwa Karoo National Park is no Big 5 destination; there is none of the bounty of Addo or Kruger that has one yawning after the 133^rd ellie sighting for the day, and where at least five kudu graze elegantly behind every spekboom bush.  The land here dictates life, and sightings are few and far between: a small herd of Springbuck here, a lonely, disapproving Gemsbok there, and, just occasionally, the odd raptor, gliding silently on outstretched wings. For a family of animal and nature lovers I thought we’d find the scarcity of game a drawback – strangely though, it creates a sense of anticipation, highlighting the privilege of finding animals that roam in such a vast, desolate space. Our trip to Oudebaas dam proved to be the most game-rich of all the drives, with a big herd of about 28 skittish Gemsbok, a couple of very shy Eland, several ostriches and hundreds of waterfowl making it a magical day. For the most part though a few sandgrouse, almost invisible in their sand-and-stone patterned plumage, will have one feeling immensely blessed at seeing them and hearing their soft, lyrical calls as they melt away into the scrub.

Here and there, scattered across the landscape are the remnants of little cottages, now derelict and crumbling, slowly being reclaimed by this fierce environment, the textures of clay and straw almost being resorbed by the surrounding desert.  I find it both intriguing and yet sad at the same time. Who were these courageous folk who tried to make a living here? Did they succumb or did they move away to make a life for themselves in a more forgiving place? Nosing around inside we found that the locals have taken every opportunity to make themselves at home – almost every little shelf or windowsill has a nest on it, and an enormous suspended hive of bees has taken up residence in one cottage, their humming become a malevolent, furious buzz as we approached a little too close for their comfort.

Photographs in the desert

Standing amidst this vast expanse, defined by distant mountains in every direction, one has a sense of smallness, of being a diminutive speck in the greatness of this land. It’s a place that brings perspective. It almost forces one to become still, to listen closely for its heartbeat, to smell the promise of rain as the clouds gather, to look for the subtle signs of life in an apparently lifeless environment. And as we stood in awe of this strange, desolate country, the haunting notes of the flute sang out in its honour.