Slightly fortified but lazy from a full stomach and the singing heat, I face the last leg of today's journey, to Victoria West where I plan to sleep. The farm roads are in good condition, with here and there, signs of recent rains rutting the smoothish surface. Best not get your front wheel caught in one of those, it goes it's own way, not-so-gently guided by the subtle and sometimes unseen ridges in the road.
Here, the road crosses the railway and swerves to the left, following the railway line. I love railway travel.
Not far beyond the bend, stopped at a blockhouse, I find a truck loaded with sheep. I stop to ask whether everything is OK, because maybe I can organise for help when I get to Victoria West. A polite young trucker jumps down from the cab. Everything is fine, he says, "behalwe dat ek sukkel met hierdie ooie in hierdie hitte!" he says, exasperatedly gesturing at the carriage. I look at them without comprehension. The little I know about sheep, which is probably more than average since my sister married a sheep farmer, doesn't cover sheep transport.
It's his own truck that he recently bought. The young trucker has been driving night and day, dropping off one and picking up another load in East London and now back on his way to Victoria West with. The heat is affecting the load of sheep he is carrying, but I don't know in what way, and I don't know why he stopped if moving is probably going to cool them down more in an open carriage. Ah well.
The trucker, having said his bit, is suddenly overcome by the fact of me stopping to help, and starts thanking me profusely. He looks a sentimental sort, swinging between emotions quickly, like a child. Too hot and tired to bother with photo's, I wave goodbye and carry on, looking forward to coming to rest.
I ride down Victoria West main road with no destination in mind. The place has so many guesthouses and B&Bs, and when I stop and Google them, my eyes goggle at the rates. Good grief! Not aimed at the local tourist, much. An ageing gent approaches me as I stand in the middle of the road, cell phone in hand, and asks what I want. When I mention I need a place to stay, he points around at the pricey places and mention a few names. "Or you can stay with me! I've just opened a hostel, you'll be my first guest!"
It's on the corner right next to me, and he quotes me R100 per night, and I think, why not? He looks small and harmless enough. I manoeuvre Hooligan through the gate he opens for me, find a parking spot I think I can get out of, take off a few bits of luggage, and follow him into the house.
And so I make the acquaintance of John Wagenvoorde, a self-described inventor and tinkerer, who lost his business or sold his house in Johannesburg or something. He'd bought this property with a few of the surrounding guesthouses, and was developing it into a cheap hostel. He did maintenance for the places around him as well.
The house is a historic building, and John had found a way to fix the mud walls, understandably a huge problem in these old properties, by mixing glue with mud, he said. I walked around, taking in the eclectic layout and furnishings. The house has huge potential, but it is going to take time to get everything in place. I put my stuff in the dusty room pointed out to me, with the bedding laying in wait.
Watch out for that springbuck skin, waiting to trip up unwary travellers...
John is happy to have company, and keeps jabbering away, pointing out this and that, explaining his plans. In the kitchen lies a dog on a pillow, breathing belabouredly. The poor dog contracted cat fever, and has been too weak to eat or walk now for 5 days. John gently strokes and talk to the dog, and squirts a few drops of water down its throat with a syringe. He seems like a typical verstrooide professor, with the beginnings of projects scattered throughout the house. The place is fairly neat but there is a thick layer of dust everywhere, something men seem to have a selective blindness to.
Crazy Scientist Central
He tells me he needs to go to Jozi for a few weeks, and plans to ride up the next day on the little scooter on the stoep, same as he came down with. He has a friend/caretaker coming to look after the dog and the property while he's gone.
We are chatting on the stoep when I notice a man weaving towards us drunkenly, wearing filthy clothes, face covered in old blood and bruises. I walk back into the house, leaving John to deal with what I presume to be a beggar. John opens the gate and welcomes him in. This is his caretaker, the friend who helps at the vegetable market, whom I assumed arrived the next day.
John takes his caretaker to the kitchen and shows him the intensive care patient, explaining how he should care for this dog and the others. The caretaker waves him to silence and kneels down, stroking the dog with inebriated confidence to show he knows what he is doing. I stare, slightly appalled. I ask John
sotto voce whether my bedroom door can lock. "Oh, you don't have to worry, I know him very well, he is nothing to worry about" he pooh-poohs me. A man I don't know from a bar of soap, vouching for a man who doesn't know a bar of soap.
I pull out my phone and hurriedly Google for the number of the person mentioned to me by the owner of the Vetmuis in Richmond. The lady thankfully has a room for me, and quotes me R600 for the night, discounted from R650 because I'm not a person sharing. It makes my eyes water, but I can't stay here.
I start gathering my things. Poor John is embarrassed. He asks his caretaker to go wash his face from the old blood still clotted on it, which makes his friend marginally more presentable. When it is clear I plan to leave, he tries to compel his caretaker to come back the next day, but the caretaker is so inebriated he doesn't catch John's drift, and stands there swaying slightly, smiling at me in benevolently creepy way.
I assure John that it's me, not him. I'm a scaredy cat and I don't feel comfortable in this situation. He is not to blame and please to keep the money I paid him for the night. He nods in acceptance, and opens the gate for me. I quickly ride away, thinking that either John is an astute judge of character who sees something in his friend that completely escapes me, or has amazing trust in humankind. I hoped, for the sake of that poor sick dog, that it is the first.
Topic: Licenced to Ride: Singles Tour (13 - 28/10/2020) (Read 2860 times)
