A PRETTY oasis in South Africa’s arid Northern Cape, the town of Springbok is close to a number of floral hotspots, nature reserves and game parks and we have often overnighted there while visiting these wonderful wild places. We usually stay in the comfortable and convenient caravan park on the edge of the town. For most of the year it is peaceful and quiet but the first time we stayed there, a number of years ago, it was the Namaqualand flower season and it was packed with flower people. Most of them were sprightly senior caravanners, doing their pilgrimage to pay homage to the flowers but when we arrived there on that cold spring afternoon, flower power had taken a back seat. The Currie Cup final, South Africa’s biggest annual rugby happening, was due to kick off and everyone was assembled in front of a television set under a covered area near the park office to watch the big match.
Bill and I had other priorities. We’d just spent five days in a cold, wet Richtersveld National Park, a wonderful but chilling experience. As soon as we set up camp I hurried over to the ablution block, looking forward to a long, luxuriously hot shower. There were a few other women in the shower block so I waited my turn, listening to the conversations around me. I am used to the quiet bragging that goes on in public places in game reserves. Campers chatting to each other at the communal dish washing area might just find a way to slip into the conservation the fact that they had seen a couple of lions or a leopard or a cheetah that day. If done with due modesty and understatement, bragging is quite acceptable in these instances.
The same laws seemed to apply to the flower people. They just casually mentioned how lucky they had been to arrive at a certain place at just the right time to see the flowers open and in their full glory. And – what a pity – no-one else had been there to share the sight. After my shower, I join Bill and the flower people and settled down to watch the Big Match. Our team, the Sharks from KwaZulu-Natal was one of the finalists, so we hoped the Sharks would win. I do have a confession to make. Bill and I are not the greatest rugby fans in the world, which is rather unpatriotic if you are South African. And right from the kick-off, the opposing team looked like it would end up winning. Judging from the cheering, there were very few Sharks supporters around.
It was really rather cold, sitting there watching our team lose. The rain had followed us to Springbok and a nasty little wind was making its presence felt. At half time we decided to abandon the Sharks players to their fate and head for the Springbok Cafe for supper. Now, the Springbok Cafe is legendary, a real South African 1960s style corner cafe and diner, combined with a veritable museum of photographs and a treasure trove of semi-precious stones. The menu is also straight out of the 1960s, too, offering simple, well-cooked and reasonably priced meals. The greatest lure, though, is the stock of wonderful books, many of them dealing with Namaqualand, present and past, that line a section of this wonder-filled diner-come-emporium.
We lingered over our meal, enjoying a bit of luxury after roughing it in the Richtersveld, then we paid our bill and headed back to camp. By then the Sharks had been soundly beaten and the flower people were celebrating our team’s defeat. There was much merriment back in camp. Some-one had put on some music and there is a bit of an opskop (knees-up, if you’re British) going on under the crowded covered area. Some of the revellers had spilled out from under the covers and were dancing in the rain. We joined them for a while, just to show them we were not poor losers, then we sneaked off to bed. The celebration continued way into the night, but it was a fairly muted celebration and didn’t really disturb us. Before long, we were fast asleep. Some time during the night I woke up and wandered over to the loos. There was lots of giggling coming from a bevy of golden girls who were heading that way, too.
After the revelry the night before, I expected the senior citizen campers to be a bit tardy about rising in the morning. However, although people seemed to be a bit quieter than usual, they were all up and about by the time we poured our first cup of coffee. Two of the golden girls walked passed our campsite. “I do have a bit of a headache today,” said the one. “I think I might just have had a little too much wine!” Her friend was unsympathetic. “We really must hurry, Joan. The rain has stopped at last and the flowers should be excellent today. We must get going as early as possible.”
A break for the rugby and a bit of holiday revelry was all very well but soon the flower people were back to the serious business of flower spotting. Bill and I just love to see so many youthful elderly folk, many of them well over pensionable age, out there with tents and caravans, seeking adventure in southern Africa’s wilder places, making the most of their golden years. And celebrating rugby victories by dancing in the rain.
