From the end of the battered, weather-grilled
tarmac in Samedupe, around 20 kilos from Maun, starts a road that I pray, from
the bottom of my heart that one of the top politicians, preferably that top man
in the white house, should experience a ride on. The road will shake the
contents of his stomach until he pukes. It will shift the brain in his skull and
render him unfit for office – that is for sure. This is the road to a small
village (or a settlement as some would name it) called Somelo.
The dusty, rutted road is imbedded with hard, sharp stones that punch painfully at the tyres. I feel every grind and bump as though they hit directly on my bare feet. The ditches and holes make me grit my teeth in a surge of sickness. I hear the metal structure of the highly-built Nissan Patrol 4X4 Station Wagon complain under the assault. A hail of gravel hammers the underneath of the vehicle, scattering loose stones in idiot profusion. I grimace, gripping the back of the front seat for support. Outside, the vegetation is dull and hopeless. Dry shrubs and brittle trees stand on the roadside like corpses, watching every brutal movement on the road like spectators at an illegal, deadly race.
There seem to be no air outside, and that we survive from the blowing air-con. But that’s not the case, of course. At one crazy point, an anthill straddles the road, as though placed there with an evil intent. The Nissan swerves around it and barrows through thick sand. The road stretches on and on, getting worse with every kilometre. Now and then, an antelope swiftly crosses the road. After very many kilometres of bumping and shaking, we pass a stationary and deserted light weight bakkie on the road with flat tyres. The poor machine couldn’t survive the cruel road. I look back at the road behind us. I can’t see the bakkie. A thick cloud of dust trails us. Then I look ahead again and I see the first road sign ever. The board says, ‘Somelo 25Km’. That’s a lie, I say to my companions. I tell them that the true distance, on this road, is 250Km. My head is aching. My body is painful.
The dusty, rutted road is imbedded with hard, sharp stones that punch painfully at the tyres. I feel every grind and bump as though they hit directly on my bare feet. The ditches and holes make me grit my teeth in a surge of sickness. I hear the metal structure of the highly-built Nissan Patrol 4X4 Station Wagon complain under the assault. A hail of gravel hammers the underneath of the vehicle, scattering loose stones in idiot profusion. I grimace, gripping the back of the front seat for support. Outside, the vegetation is dull and hopeless. Dry shrubs and brittle trees stand on the roadside like corpses, watching every brutal movement on the road like spectators at an illegal, deadly race.
There seem to be no air outside, and that we survive from the blowing air-con. But that’s not the case, of course. At one crazy point, an anthill straddles the road, as though placed there with an evil intent. The Nissan swerves around it and barrows through thick sand. The road stretches on and on, getting worse with every kilometre. Now and then, an antelope swiftly crosses the road. After very many kilometres of bumping and shaking, we pass a stationary and deserted light weight bakkie on the road with flat tyres. The poor machine couldn’t survive the cruel road. I look back at the road behind us. I can’t see the bakkie. A thick cloud of dust trails us. Then I look ahead again and I see the first road sign ever. The board says, ‘Somelo 25Km’. That’s a lie, I say to my companions. I tell them that the true distance, on this road, is 250Km. My head is aching. My body is painful.
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