Van Zylsrus is at the end of the road. Well, at the end of two roads, to be
precise. Kind of like a one-block settlement at the end
of two roads. “Relax in Van Zylsrus” pronounces the welcome sign. The Van Zylsrus Hotel is tightly sandwiched
between two drankwinkels (Afrikaans
for bottle stores, which sounds to me even more like a hangover than babelaas). Unsurprisingly we are met by
one of the local drunks on arrival, as well as a variety of dogs of
indeterminate breed and ownership. The
hotel is clean and comfy, rooms with automated air-freshener clustered around
some artsy courtyards and a pleasant leafy garden. Afternoon rugby is about to begin, and the
bar is filling up with local patrons and some meercat researchers. There are not enough of them, though, to make
much of a difference to a slow autumn Saturday.
Earlier in the day, we passed through a half-street village in the middle of nowhere called Askham, where the Afrikaans manager of the local co-op invited us in for a coffee, in amidst the paint, fertilizer and horse bridlery. She loves it here: she glows, she is full of energy, she sees beauty in the stark camel-thorns and the endless dust. She is supersize in body and spirit, joyful, unpretentious, and content with her lot in life. She confirms (or reassures?) that there are thirty white people in the area, and that they see each other at church once a fortnight. She rattles off the list of annual parties and dances. Oh, to be a fly-on-the-wall at the Askham Valentine’s Dance. She almost drools with delight and anticipation telling us about the menu that we can expect at the Van Zylsrus Hotel, in particular the pumpkin which, I later find out, is so sugary and translucent with butter that it is virtually jam.
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Earlier in the day, we passed through a half-street village in the middle of nowhere called Askham, where the Afrikaans manager of the local co-op invited us in for a coffee, in amidst the paint, fertilizer and horse bridlery. She loves it here: she glows, she is full of energy, she sees beauty in the stark camel-thorns and the endless dust. She is supersize in body and spirit, joyful, unpretentious, and content with her lot in life. She confirms (or reassures?) that there are thirty white people in the area, and that they see each other at church once a fortnight. She rattles off the list of annual parties and dances. Oh, to be a fly-on-the-wall at the Askham Valentine’s Dance. She almost drools with delight and anticipation telling us about the menu that we can expect at the Van Zylsrus Hotel, in particular the pumpkin which, I later find out, is so sugary and translucent with butter that it is virtually jam.
I go running and think about all the strange places I’ve
been running in the past year (like Bandra Bombay, Gairezi Zimbabwe and Tooting
London). It is almost new moon and my uterus aches. I calculate that if I’d
lived in Mary Moffat’s time, albeit not in the Kalahari, I might well have had
13 children by now, including allowance for some fallow years in between and
perhaps a death or two.
Gravel beneath my feet, and my shoes make shadows in the late light – like hobnail boots, like wagon wheels, like hobnail boots, like wagon wheels, round they go. The road is much more uneven under one’s own feet than it is under car wheels, of course. Like so many things in life, one’s perspective shifts with proximity. Uneven, undulating, coarse, pushed here and there into little sand peaks, this road is harder to navigate with only my own body-fuel. It is so silent that I stop to listen under a huge void of cloudless sky. Thud of own heart, gravel crunch pause, at least four bird species at different distances. A horse trap passes me, driven by three young country boys, perched side by side. The trap moves strangely quietly and when I next look over my shoulder it is gone without trace, like maybe it was imagined. I am nearly back at Van Zylsrus as the sun sets. Three 4x4s rush past and their dust envelopes the orange.
At dinner I sample the remarkable pumpkin dish whose reputation precedes it. We are the only diners. There are red-checked tablecloths. The wide-ranging playlist brings us everything from Phantom of the Opera to Belinda Carlisle. There is a substantial collection of kitsch Christian crosses on the wall above the piano. We are fussed over by two pretty teenaged waitresses, who double-check every detail. The food takes its time, as it does in out-of-the-way places. The girls flutter in and out, doing god-knows-what. The food finally arrives and it’s very tasty. Even two delicious gluten-free vegetarian quiches (specially prepared ahead of my arrival – in fact they were already proffering them to me at lunchtime), piping hot, accompanied by green beans smothered in white sauce, and the syrupy pumpkin. Think of it as a sort of vegetable extension of the koeksister family. Just in case I didn’t have enough sugar, I round off the meal with a Dom Pedro, that favourite of southern African treats, Kahlua mixed with vanilla icecream in an alcoholic shake that tickles both the adult and child within. As for which Dom (or was it Don?) Pedro inspired this drink - and when and where - that remains shrouded in mystery.
Gravel beneath my feet, and my shoes make shadows in the late light – like hobnail boots, like wagon wheels, like hobnail boots, like wagon wheels, round they go. The road is much more uneven under one’s own feet than it is under car wheels, of course. Like so many things in life, one’s perspective shifts with proximity. Uneven, undulating, coarse, pushed here and there into little sand peaks, this road is harder to navigate with only my own body-fuel. It is so silent that I stop to listen under a huge void of cloudless sky. Thud of own heart, gravel crunch pause, at least four bird species at different distances. A horse trap passes me, driven by three young country boys, perched side by side. The trap moves strangely quietly and when I next look over my shoulder it is gone without trace, like maybe it was imagined. I am nearly back at Van Zylsrus as the sun sets. Three 4x4s rush past and their dust envelopes the orange.
At dinner I sample the remarkable pumpkin dish whose reputation precedes it. We are the only diners. There are red-checked tablecloths. The wide-ranging playlist brings us everything from Phantom of the Opera to Belinda Carlisle. There is a substantial collection of kitsch Christian crosses on the wall above the piano. We are fussed over by two pretty teenaged waitresses, who double-check every detail. The food takes its time, as it does in out-of-the-way places. The girls flutter in and out, doing god-knows-what. The food finally arrives and it’s very tasty. Even two delicious gluten-free vegetarian quiches (specially prepared ahead of my arrival – in fact they were already proffering them to me at lunchtime), piping hot, accompanied by green beans smothered in white sauce, and the syrupy pumpkin. Think of it as a sort of vegetable extension of the koeksister family. Just in case I didn’t have enough sugar, I round off the meal with a Dom Pedro, that favourite of southern African treats, Kahlua mixed with vanilla icecream in an alcoholic shake that tickles both the adult and child within. As for which Dom (or was it Don?) Pedro inspired this drink - and when and where - that remains shrouded in mystery.
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