I believe that I was born to be a small town scallywag. I love and adore exploring small towns on my travels. But the right small town, you know those quaint ones, slightly more liberal, farmers’ market, kids playing in the street, maybe a horse clip-clopping down the main road. Old buildings with an air of colonialism, one pub in town. Everyone knows everyone. I love small-town living. As we journey through South Africa I have had the privilege of seeing not-so-nice small towns and some absolutely spectacular ones. The not-so-nice small towns of Southern Africa are definitely ones you want to skedaddle through quickly.
A wee while ago we were having car problems, long road trip, middle of nowhere. Engine light came on — awesome. (Brand new car as well, but that’s a story for another day). Theo and I got stuck in this small town trying to find a mechanic on a Sunday who could help us. During our search, we found one that claimed to be open on a Sunday and a short 15-minute drive out of town. We accidentally drove into a settlement in the hope of finding this mechanic. A misadventure, you don’t just drive into settlements in South Africa, big no-no. Settlements are poorer areas, shack houses tucked together made with various debris elements. The communities don’t take well with strangers driving through. You don’t just go into a settlement for fun, they aren’t safe if you don’t know the area or live there. We did a quick 180, and headed back to the sad little middle-of-nowhere town. Regardless of our wrong turn, we finally found a mechanic willing to help us.
I had my doubts and judgments, this small town was rednecky. The people were the kind that looked at you funny. It was the wrong day for me to have my tattoos out and flowy colourful pants on. The mechanic pulled up in an unsuspicious car, and sat for a minute and took a long toke from his overly large vape. He had a ponytail. I don’t know why but the ponytail threw me off, it was just a little ponytail. The mechanic was young, maybe late twenties, his accent broken and his English average. He was the nicest stranger I have met in a long time. Quiet and reserved, he sorted our car out (mostly — the engine light is still on). Just a small-town mechanic in the middle of nowhere willing to help two strange, panicked fools on his day off.
We did some house-sitting in another small town of the Western Cape called Greyton: this town was CUTE! One main road, heaps of little cafes and stores, surrounded by mountains. I loved Greyton: the week we spent there felt like a little writers’ retreat, going on daily walks, sitting down and working on my poetry and other projects. We did the occasional walk through town to check out the local scallywag people (saw some drunk old men at 10 am) and enjoyed the farmers’ markets. I frigging love farmers’ markets! I bought some fancy cheese; do you know how ridiculously expensive fancy cheese is?
But yet again we were met with open arms by the people around us. The old couple we house-sat for told us to go fetch milk and eggs for ourselves at the farmers’ market (paid for already). Their gardener came in twice a week, a small man with missing teeth and a sunken in face, didn’t speak a word of English. Looked like a foetal alcohol survivor. He always asked for coffee at the most inopportune of times. Yet he gave no qualms about strangers hanging around and bringing him terrible coffee, treated us like old friends, and said good morning with gusto every time.
In the following small town we journeyed to, we made friends! A large group of younger people. Some of them from farms, all of them were first-language Afrikaans and second-language English. They took us in under their wings, spoke broken English to Theo consistently, and even taught him how to do a traditional Afrikaans dance. They took us to the only pub in town and we drank with all the locals. I felt like a real small-town rascal that night. No one tried to fight with Theo even though he was wearing an All Blacks rugby Jersey (brave in small-town South Africa). The bartender kept calling us “New Zealand” so everyone else called us “New Zealand”. People kept bringing us shots throughout the night. Someone kept giving Theo this green shot called a “Springbokkie” (springbok). I think he felt a bit blasphemous wearing an All Blacks rugby doing Springbok shots.
The rest of the week was filled with people giving us suggestions on what to do and see in the area or wanting to take us places. A lovely young couple heard we were travelling from the friends we made and invited us to stay at their guest house on their farm free of charge: the loveliest accommodation I have stayed at in a while. They were just happy to share their home and hear our stories. I cannot wrap my head around how hospitable everyone has been in these little towns, even the scallywags, drunks and rougher-than-usual people. Everyone we meet wants to chat or share something with us. We are seriously lucky to have had the opportunity to experience this level of welcoming. It has been good for me; my judgments have been warped and pushed around a little bit. I met a man with broken teeth, a sunken-in face, reeling eyes, and no language skills. He was a lovely person and gave zero fucks about the very bad coffee I made. We both cringed at how bitter it was.
