Be careful when you say pack light. Your kids might listen

21 May 2017 - 02:00 By Sarah Groves
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Eating a juicy hot feast out of a serviette when there aren't enough plates to go around just isn't the same.
Eating a juicy hot feast out of a serviette when there aren't enough plates to go around just isn't the same.
Image: Piet Grobler

Accidental Tourist Sarah Groves wonders about the wisdom of letting her children pack their own bags for a family trip to the Drakensberg

We are halfway to the Drakensberg for a four-day trip before I think to ask my children what they have packed. "A change of T-shirt," my 14-year-old daughter replies.

"And?" I say.

"That's all. There is a fireplace if I get cold."

"And if your clothes get wet?" I lean forward to where she is lounging in the front seat of our hire car. "You will change into your fresh T-shirt and your?"

"Hmm," she replies.

This is my eldest, most sensible child and so I hesitate to ask what the others have packed. But secretly, I'm pleased. I admire extreme minimalism, the kind that says, "Who needs a First Ascent tent? I'll just sling up a hammock for the night." And I had told my kids to pack light.

"I packed a change of clothes," my 12-year-old son says, "but no pajamas."

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"And I packed pajamas," my 10-year-old daughter says, "but no change of clothes."

"And we are all having to pack like this," Sam interrupts, "because mom is cheap and hired a five-seater car for a seven-bummed family."

This is true. I am squashed in the back of a Toyota Corolla, with a 7-year-old on one knee, a 5-year-old on the other, making sure my voice sounds cheerful so Sam will know I am very, very happy with the decision I made to hire this cheap car. Because I like minimalism, almost as much as I like cheap.

"On the upside," I remind Sam, "I will shortly be shopping, and now that I've saved thousands of rands on this car, I feel free to splurge on holiday food."

To save space, we packed staples from home and planned to stop at the nearest shop. I hadn't actually planned to splurge at the nearest shop but the words are out, and as I enter the supermarket, they tighten in my throat.

Drakensberg Supermarkets are low on quality, high on price. The lettuces look like mummified heads, the carrots like they can bend, but no longer break.

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"Keep your chin up," I tell myself, "because if you duff it, you may never get to choose the hire car again."

I make for the meat section and load my trolley with Texan steaks, chicken flatties, pork-rib burgers. Then I find potatoes, butter, chakalaka. One plateful of this and Sam will no longer be dreaming of that Nissan X-Trail.

When we arrive at our camp, the unpacking is easy. The kids' bags are as thin as malnourished chickens and everything else fits into a box. Which, now that I think of it, is slightly worrying.

At home I had left my 14-year-old to pack for meal times, with the warning that, on account of the Corolla, we were low on space, which should not be brought to dad's attention by overpacking. In short, I had told a girl, who thought it decadent to pack a change of clothes, to pack light.

"I see there are only spoons," I say, as I unpack the box.

"You can't eat cornflakes with a fork," she explains. And why double up?

Sam is building a fire now so I take the meat over and point out how much there is and how juicy it looks. Then I lay out the boiled potatoes, butter and salt for mashing and open the oily chakalaka.

We sit down for supper and Sam asks for a fork to hold the meat as he slices. I offer him a spoon. He lays out five kids' plates and dishes up their meat. Then he surrounds himself with the rest of the dripping meat, potatoes, butter, chakalaka.

He surveys the table and looks at me. "There are no more plates," he says.

This is a fact that has been slowly dawning on me and I am wondering how to negotiate it.

"You two don't usually eat off plates, you just pick from the braai," my daughter offers.

This is true when we hire a fancy car and, with the change, buy bangers, but now Sam has been promised a feast and he is looking at his dripping meat and buttery potatoes and oily chakalaka in dismay.

"You could always eat off this."

I hand him a serviette. And then I look away.

• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels ? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za.

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