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Strip Road to Plumtree
There were no white suburbs or black townships at the west end of the city. We came abruptly onto dry grassland and Ken Worger steered the van from the left lane of the paved urban thoroughfare onto the two narrow, rounded strips of tarmac that marked the beginning of a single lane rural road. “We have just mounted an engineering marvel,” announced Peter Wells, the eighteen year old volunteer in his
uncorrupted Yorkshire accent. “The individual strips of pavement are just wide enough and just far enough apart so that one size fits all vehicles. It’s ingenious really.” We passed a sign that read: Plumtree 63 miles; Figtree 33 miles.
Although Ken maintained a good speed, we never caught up with any traffic ahead of us, if indeed there was any, and met only three oncoming vehicles along the way. At the first such encounter I wondered who would have the right of way on this single lane highway. The oncoming vehicle was a Land Rover. It loomed large and formidable. The two drivers sped toward each other, like two locomotives claiming the same set of tracks. I seriously doubted the reverend minister’s Christian charity as he and his opposite – his opponent! – kept all four tires on the two strips of pavement until a collision was imminent. Then, simultaneously, as if on signal, each driver veered to his left, maneuvered his right hand tires onto one strip of pavement and passed the other with no reduction of speed. Our left hand tires ripped up the dust at the side of the road for about three seconds. Then all four tires were back on tarmac again.
Among the passengers in the van only Louanne and I seemed aware of our close encounter with infinity. Henry Knoll, an Afrikaner with the leathery complexion, facial lines and musculature of a man who had spent most of his life working out-of-doors under the African sun, was sitting “in the suicide seat” next to Ken Worger. He was totally unfazed. Some moments later, he looked back and explained, “No one likes to get into the dirt too soon.”
I began looking earnestly ahead on both sides of the road for signs of human life. We drove for forty minutes. There was nothing on any horizon but dry grass, bushes and stunted trees. I anticipated finding a small town or village, or at least a shop or service station, at Figtree. But there was only a sign: Figtree. We didn’t even slow down.
“So . . . so no one lives here? In Figtree?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
Peter laughed. “I’ve been through here several times already in the past three weeks. I’ve never even seen
the fig tree.”
Henry pointed to an established pattern of tire prints on the right. “You follow that track, over there, through the bush, twenty, twenty-five minutes, maybe more, there’s a small mission . . . Baptists.”
I found no consolation in the presence, however near or far, of a lonely Baptist mission. No one had any other comfort to offer. With every mile I was being driven against my will farther into desolation. Louanne and I were on our way to nowhere – for two years. We were trapped!
There were no white suburbs or black townships at the west end of the city. We came abruptly onto dry grassland and Ken Worger steered the van from the left lane of the paved urban thoroughfare onto the two narrow, rounded strips of tarmac that marked the beginning of a single lane rural road. “We have just mounted an engineering marvel,” announced Peter Wells, the eighteen year old volunteer in his
uncorrupted Yorkshire accent. “The individual strips of pavement are just wide enough and just far enough apart so that one size fits all vehicles. It’s ingenious really.” We passed a sign that read: Plumtree 63 miles; Figtree 33 miles.
Although Ken maintained a good speed, we never caught up with any traffic ahead of us, if indeed there was any, and met only three oncoming vehicles along the way. At the first such encounter I wondered who would have the right of way on this single lane highway. The oncoming vehicle was a Land Rover. It loomed large and formidable. The two drivers sped toward each other, like two locomotives claiming the same set of tracks. I seriously doubted the reverend minister’s Christian charity as he and his opposite – his opponent! – kept all four tires on the two strips of pavement until a collision was imminent. Then, simultaneously, as if on signal, each driver veered to his left, maneuvered his right hand tires onto one strip of pavement and passed the other with no reduction of speed. Our left hand tires ripped up the dust at the side of the road for about three seconds. Then all four tires were back on tarmac again.
Among the passengers in the van only Louanne and I seemed aware of our close encounter with infinity. Henry Knoll, an Afrikaner with the leathery complexion, facial lines and musculature of a man who had spent most of his life working out-of-doors under the African sun, was sitting “in the suicide seat” next to Ken Worger. He was totally unfazed. Some moments later, he looked back and explained, “No one likes to get into the dirt too soon.”
I began looking earnestly ahead on both sides of the road for signs of human life. We drove for forty minutes. There was nothing on any horizon but dry grass, bushes and stunted trees. I anticipated finding a small town or village, or at least a shop or service station, at Figtree. But there was only a sign: Figtree. We didn’t even slow down.
“So . . . so no one lives here? In Figtree?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
Peter laughed. “I’ve been through here several times already in the past three weeks. I’ve never even seen
the fig tree.”
Henry pointed to an established pattern of tire prints on the right. “You follow that track, over there, through the bush, twenty, twenty-five minutes, maybe more, there’s a small mission . . . Baptists.”
I found no consolation in the presence, however near or far, of a lonely Baptist mission. No one had any other comfort to offer. With every mile I was being driven against my will farther into desolation. Louanne and I were on our way to nowhere – for two years. We were trapped!
