“Satterlint Meneer?” – A short solo into two Karoos

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Rokie

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“Satterlint Meneer?” – A short solo into two Karoos
(weekend of 10 - 12 May 2013)

I didn’t really go where I was planning, at all – mostly because I didn’t really plan where I was going. I loaded the Dakkie on Thursday evening, so that I could leave directly after work on Friday.


<packed dakkie>

Some time and budget constraints made me deviate from my initial thoughts and rather than heading for the Northern parts of the West Coast (will do it one day . . .), I headed for Montagu, en route to Sutherland. I set off on Friday afternoon with not much of a plan other than to camp both nights and to be back on Sunday.

I chased over Sir Lowry’s Pass and swung left after Grabauw to head for Villiersdorp. The air was much cooler than I anticipated and I realised that I should have been wearing my jacket‘s inner. Autumn in the Cape can feel like summer, but the winter bite becomes evident in the evenings.

Campsite no. 1

Once through Villiersdorp and over the pass on the way to Worcester, the day had faded and I took a right onto a back-road that I knew from before. I got a bit lost in the dark and even had a close encounter with a cow! – all the time thinking, “I’m sure I’ll find a spot to camp, any minute now.” After about 30 minutes I was confident I was on the right road (a short-cut between Villiersdorp and Roberstson, bypassing Worcester completely) and spotted a lovely olive orchard. I darted into the middle of it, quickly killing the engine and the lights, in order not to attract any attention. Surely there’s a grumpy farmer close by, who wouldn’t take kindly to any old stranger camping on his land – or some rowdy locals, on their way home from a pay-day binge, ready to stir some trouble . . .

I quickly pitched my tent under the cover of darkness.


<tent on Fri>

There was a fair amount of wind and the steady ‘whoosh’ through the olive branches also gave me some cover of sound. However, by the time I had my instant dinner:


<mallow bar on bread>
Fine dining: marshmallow chocolate hot-dog

. . . and arranged my bed, the wind had died down completely. It felt like every little sound I made (from the crunch of dry leaves and pruned branches to the crinkle of my cheap Checkers sleeping bag) echoed through the valley and was bound to attract the attentions of that grumpy farmer or those rowdy locals . . . or something / someone . . .

I was not too far from the adjacent farm road, so the couple of farm bakkies (pick-ups) that passed by were, in my mind, also threats to my (not so) peaceful existence. The cold woke me up once or twice and inevitably I’d hear some sound or another and imagine either that someone is messing with my bike or that someone is creeping up on me, ready to chuck me off their land.
 
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