Day 1 Leaving Paradise

Day 1

Leaving Paradise. 

Out of Dodge at the crack o’ noon, as usual.  A thousand loose ends to tie up, but tied they were and out we rolled, north by northwest. 

Through Stanford, the valley fluorescent with the blooming canola plants, a yellow-green that just can’t be found in Nature, but there it is in geometric patterns on he hills between the sea and the inland mountains. 

I’d forgotten how massive those mountains were in Worcester and Ceres , Citrusdal and finally on into Clanwilliam. 

There are countless delays along the highways in SAfrica.  It could be construction, in which they will stop one lane (mine), while the other passes on through whistling victory tunes and smiling at our queue waiting our turn.   But, just as often it is a Traffic Police inspection.  She stands in the middle of the National Highway in her Orange vest and little British-looking billed cap, hand raised defiantly in the universal STOP signal while her assistant waves you over to the shoulder.  You park, fumble for your documents and hope that all is in order. 

“Driving license.”

“Yes, here it is, American.” 

“Date of Birth?” 

She was confused because the “5/15/52” translates to Fifth Day, Fifteenth Month, 1952”  I was sorely tempted to say that in the US, there are 15 months, but then, I was sure in my signals and brake lights worked, and I’ve seen those Texas videos of people being beaten for such transgressions.  I explained how it goes. 

“Signals.”

“Brake Lights.”

“Water.”

I was SURE I heard her say water, so I flipped the windshield washers and squirted away, some drops flung by the wipers and landing on the bill of her natty cap. 

A strange look and “No, Hooter!” 

Believe me, Hooter and Water are pronounced about as differently as There and Their.

Walking to our dinner restaurant in the dark I could swear I heard bagpipes coming from the church on Main Street.  Sure enough.  Well, what do you really expect in a town named Clanwilliam.

Reinholds restaurant has buffet night on Wednesdays.  And there we were, surrounded by gray-haired Flower People.  No, not hippies searching for the 60’s, but people who come by the busload to this part of South Africa to view the amazing show of wildflowers that erupts each spring.