Tales from the back roads
When it rains in the Karoo
It’s a cold, wet August morning between Beaufort West and Fraserburg. Ahead of me, a light-blue truck has pulled off the gravel road. On the two-deck trailer are a flock of young merinos, and a man is leaning against the truck. I stop, ask if he needs help. His brown army bush jacket looks wet and cellphone signals haven’t reach this part of the Karoo yet. Everything is fine, all fine, he says, standing in the drizzle. I dawdle, because the smell of wet lambs’ wool and wet Karoo bossies is having an effect on me.
“Piet le Roux. “His hand feels rough, like earth. “Thank you for the rain you brought us. Do you mind if I light my pipe?”
This smoke clings to the wet wool, the veld and Oom Piet’s bush jacket, and it makes me forget about the times I pulled off the road to offer help and people didn’t thank me.
My wife knows by now, when we drive from Bloemfontein to the coast, it can take anything from three to five days to get there. This is my fault; I am allergic to major routes and
