← Gone Away
Flying
(This is one of a series of articles I wrote dealing with memories of an African childhood. To read the first of these, click here)
It was early one morning, just outside Colesberg in Natal. The two young hitch-hikers had heard that the early bird gets the worm and so had made sure that they were on the road just as the sun came up. And they were not disappointed, for the very first car slowed as it approached.
Pete turned to his friend. "A Jag," he said, "Always wanted to ride in a Jag..."
The Jaguar pulled to a stop next to them and the driver leaned over to wind down the window. "Hop in, boys. We're going to fly."
The hikers lost no time in throwing their packs into the back seat and embarking. It looked as though their luck was in; obviously this fellow intended to waste no time. As the doors closed, the driver let in the clutch and the big car leaped forward.
Half a mile down the road the car slowed suddenly and turned off down a side road. The hikers glanced at each other, both wondering what was happening but unwilling to jeopardize their lift with too many questions. In a few moments all was revealed as they emerged from a belt of trees on to a small aerodrome.
It dawned on the hikers then. The driver had meant what he said quite literally. And now the hikers could hardly believe their luck.
The car stopped next to a hangar. "Come on lads," said the driver as he sprang from the car. "Give me a hand getting the doors open."
The two friends hurried to obey. There were two large doors at the front of the hangar and each hiker took one and began to push them apart on their rollers. As the gap between them increased, the driver entered the hangar. And came out again immediately.
"Damn it," he said, looking his watch. "My partner's not returned the plane yet. He promised me he'd have it back by this morning. And I've got a meeting in Middelburg in an hour."
The hikers knew that Middelburg was a hundred miles away. They watched the man to see what would happen next.
"Well, nothing for it. Just got to try and make it."
He headed for the car and the hikers trotted after him. In moments they were inside and the Jag set off, wheels spinning in haste. Back on the main road the car accelerated again and they were soon hurtling through the countryside at a completely illegal pace. The hikers could see the speedometer and began to feel uneasy.
Between Colesburg and Middelburg in the Transvaal the road twists and turns as it makes its way through a pass in the Drakensberg Mountains. That morning the two hikers found out just how frightening excessive speed can be, as well as exhilarating. They clutched at any hold available as the big Jaguar swooped around one bend after another and the driver made no comment, concentrating only upon getting to his appointment on time.
When they reached the outskirts of Middelburg, the driver glanced at his watch again. He had three minutes to go. The car slowed and came to a stop.
"Sorry, lads, I have to turn off here. Normally I'd take you through the town but I just haven't the time today."
The hikers made no complaint but thanked him profusely as they climbed from the car. Then the Jaguar was off again and disappeared around the next corner. The hikers looked at one another.
"That was some ride," said Pete.
"And we nearly went in a plane," nodded the other.
"Did you see the speedo?"
"Umm, yeah," came the reply, the reluctance to admit the terror of their journey preventing any further comment.
For a moment the friends stood quietly, contemplating that wild ride through the mountains. They thought, too, of the long walk ahead of them. Middelburg was a town at a crossroads and had developed along the arms of the roads that met there. To stand any chance of a lift, they would have to carry their heavy packs all the way into the center of the town and then out again to the other side. It was not a pleasant prospect, particularly as it always seemed to happen at Middelburg and they knew what a hard slog it was.
With a sigh, one of the hikers bent down to hoist his pack on to his back. "Well, best be making a start."
"Yeah," said his friend as he picked up his pack too. "Still, that driver was right, you know."
"How so?" asked the other.
"Well, he said we were going to fly. And we bloody well did..."
(to read the next of the African Memories articles, click here)
It was early one morning, just outside Colesberg in Natal. The two young hitch-hikers had heard that the early bird gets the worm and so had made sure that they were on the road just as the sun came up. And they were not disappointed, for the very first car slowed as it approached.
Pete turned to his friend. "A Jag," he said, "Always wanted to ride in a Jag..."
The Jaguar pulled to a stop next to them and the driver leaned over to wind down the window. "Hop in, boys. We're going to fly."
The hikers lost no time in throwing their packs into the back seat and embarking. It looked as though their luck was in; obviously this fellow intended to waste no time. As the doors closed, the driver let in the clutch and the big car leaped forward.
Half a mile down the road the car slowed suddenly and turned off down a side road. The hikers glanced at each other, both wondering what was happening but unwilling to jeopardize their lift with too many questions. In a few moments all was revealed as they emerged from a belt of trees on to a small aerodrome.
It dawned on the hikers then. The driver had meant what he said quite literally. And now the hikers could hardly believe their luck.
The car stopped next to a hangar. "Come on lads," said the driver as he sprang from the car. "Give me a hand getting the doors open."
The two friends hurried to obey. There were two large doors at the front of the hangar and each hiker took one and began to push them apart on their rollers. As the gap between them increased, the driver entered the hangar. And came out again immediately.
"Damn it," he said, looking his watch. "My partner's not returned the plane yet. He promised me he'd have it back by this morning. And I've got a meeting in Middelburg in an hour."
The hikers knew that Middelburg was a hundred miles away. They watched the man to see what would happen next.
"Well, nothing for it. Just got to try and make it."
He headed for the car and the hikers trotted after him. In moments they were inside and the Jag set off, wheels spinning in haste. Back on the main road the car accelerated again and they were soon hurtling through the countryside at a completely illegal pace. The hikers could see the speedometer and began to feel uneasy.
Between Colesburg and Middelburg in the Transvaal the road twists and turns as it makes its way through a pass in the Drakensberg Mountains. That morning the two hikers found out just how frightening excessive speed can be, as well as exhilarating. They clutched at any hold available as the big Jaguar swooped around one bend after another and the driver made no comment, concentrating only upon getting to his appointment on time.
When they reached the outskirts of Middelburg, the driver glanced at his watch again. He had three minutes to go. The car slowed and came to a stop.
"Sorry, lads, I have to turn off here. Normally I'd take you through the town but I just haven't the time today."
The hikers made no complaint but thanked him profusely as they climbed from the car. Then the Jaguar was off again and disappeared around the next corner. The hikers looked at one another.
"That was some ride," said Pete.
"And we nearly went in a plane," nodded the other.
"Did you see the speedo?"
"Umm, yeah," came the reply, the reluctance to admit the terror of their journey preventing any further comment.
For a moment the friends stood quietly, contemplating that wild ride through the mountains. They thought, too, of the long walk ahead of them. Middelburg was a town at a crossroads and had developed along the arms of the roads that met there. To stand any chance of a lift, they would have to carry their heavy packs all the way into the center of the town and then out again to the other side. It was not a pleasant prospect, particularly as it always seemed to happen at Middelburg and they knew what a hard slog it was.
With a sigh, one of the hikers bent down to hoist his pack on to his back. "Well, best be making a start."
"Yeah," said his friend as he picked up his pack too. "Still, that driver was right, you know."
"How so?" asked the other.
"Well, he said we were going to fly. And we bloody well did..."
(to read the next of the African Memories articles, click here)