If you follow the N1 North from Joburg towards Polokwane, eventually the noise and smog disappear and all you can see are acacia trees spread forlornly across the Bushveld, under a vast sky. The bliss is broken only by the occasional political convoy screeching past, blue lights ablaze, feigning urgency of some kind.
I took the turnoff to Mokopane, where I had a work engagement the following day. I arrived in the low-hanging heat of the late afternoon. Fat rain drops were beginning to smack the dry red sand as I pulled up in the driveway of the guesthouse, just past the tired sign announcing Mokopane as the "Home of Ivanplats". An intimidating iron gate adorned with giant elephants swung ominously open.
A perfectly rotund man greeted me at the front door, pipe in hand, a stained apron clinging desperately to his expansive waist. He insisted I pull up a seat at the bar. His lively conversation was interrupted only by a dangerous hacking cough. He had much to discuss. For instance, he had learnt, to his horror, that I did not eat meat, a fact that would dismay him (and the local Dros) for the duration of my stay. He was reassured, however, by my enthusiasm for Black Label.
Before bidding me goodnight, however, my host urged me not to be alarmed if I heard him leaving for work "quite early" in the morning. It only later became apparent to me that "quite early" meant 3am and "work" was his primary career as the local undertaker.Digesting my surroundings, I wandered into the communal kitchen to find a glass of water when, without warning, a man's voice, thick with the local accent, cried out: "Hoe gaan dit?" Having thought myself alone in the room, I started with surprise and spun round. An African grey parrot stared defiantly at me through the bars of his cage. I hot-footed it to my room and shut the door firmly behind me.
Once inside, I examined my sleeping quarters and found that the room had, as advertised, a bathroom. That being said, the bathroom was not so much en suite as en face. A toilet was perched, naked and exposed, on a raised platform in one corner of the room, a proud throne from which to survey the territory - including a gleaming brass bed, several versions of the New Testament (Afrikaans and sePedi) and a generous supply of Cremora.Lying exhausted on the bed, clicking through a dizzying number of evangelical TV channels, I heard some fumbling in the passage outside my room. I glanced over to see a note being slid cautiously under the door. Stubbornly ignoring the note, I focused more intently on watching a lively episode of ONE Gospel. Curiosity eventually got the better of me. It was a business card belonging to a mining engineer in town for the night and occupying the adjacent room. On the back of the card was scrawled "I downloaded some nice movies - feel free to join me". I double-checked that my door was securely locked.The next morning I stepped into the communal dining room. Next to the piles of bacon and boerewors were copies of the Daily Voice ("Dead Mom Still Wants Lobola!") and die Son ("Jagse Tokkelos Terroriseer Inwoners!"). I flipped through them, stopping occasionally to sip rooibos and gaze through the open window at my host, back from work and standing serenely in the garden with his pipe, the sun reflecting off his impressive belly. I had never felt quite so calm.
Days later I would be in Johannesburg and our office administrator would ask about the accommodation she had booked for me. "Impeccable," I would say.
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