Home Sweet Home - a serial story

March 1969 was drawing to a close and with it, so was my arduous first school term.

Having been appointed to a small school at the fringe of the Kalahari I had had a very tumultuous period of settling into the educational system under trying circumstances. Like Robinson Crusoe, I had felt stranded on a lonely island except for the fact that I had been surrounded not by pounding waves, but by a sea of flat scrubland, a scorching sun and strangers. Unequipped to do the job allotted to me for lack of the necessary tools or instruments, I was exhausted and emotionally and physically drained.

Despite the expectation of a well-deserved break, I had no idea how to get to my parents in Cape Town and back in time for the new term in April. I had no car of my own, there was no reliable public transport and I was effectively marooned for the next ten days.



A few days before the school would close, a certain Mr. Christie Kruger offered me a lift through the Kalahari via the Molopo to Upington. He would pick me up in his nineteen-sixty something Land Rover on the morning of the day after the school had closed. It would be my very first trip through that barren, yet awe-inspiring landscape depicted by low rounded hills, interspersed with gulleys, and dry annual riverbeds, and a winding gravel road.

I was up early, but alas no Landy showed up. Minutes became ago-nizing hours, adding to my already strained nerves. Then, just before midday, the Krugers arrived – they had had to fix a pipeline on their farm before leaving.

We arrived in Upington far after dark, and I was lucky enough to catch the very last train that night to Prieska. The next morning I hitchhiked my first lift that, however, took me further north to Hopetown, but I had to take the gamble. Then the tide turned: I was picked up by one motorist after the other through Victoria West, Beaufort West, Leeu Gamka, and Worcester.

By the grace of God, the miles flew behind me.

By late afternoon we topped Du Toits Kloof Pass and at last I feasted my eyes on the greenery of the Paarl Valley, the vineyards and orchards. My heart soared.

I experienced a sense of warm embracement. I was home at last! Dry old Southwest Africa would not see me again, I felt. When I walked into my mother’s arms an hour later, and smelled her mashed potatoes and meat balls, I truly realized the meaning of “home sweet home!”


Nick van Zyl