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Dateline: Karoo Desert, South Africa. I'm waking up in the arms of this desert again. My Two-Tone Merc, The Old Girl, hums in the newfound heat. In the mornings we are both a bit stiff. But she needs her plugs cleaned. Yesterday, in Lady Grey, Rudi put some new shoes on her. Now we can stop on a dime again: or rather a rand. It's been a long, cold spring in this part of Africa. Close, in the mountains at the Lesotho border: it's been crisp at night, and the Rain gods have been kind, though boisterous. A few small shows across the wilds of the Free State and into the norwest reaches of the Eastern Cape. There are some good pot holes here that the upcoming elections haven't fixed yet, reminding me of the ball joints I've yet to install. Cars like to eat, so I always share my wages with them. You never know when they will put on a hunger for something special like a new battery, or a starter motor. Or a tyre. Or something something.
It's the petrol that sucks this Tour: not the Old Girl's fault– but we just can't make all the stops we usually do. Some of those dirt roads overland will have to wait until the next adventure. Meanwhile, the map stretches out before me: worn at the seems now, a little frayed at the edges: but still welcoming: still enticing: still luring me from the well travelled roads to the strange, the peculiar, the places I still can't pronounce properly, the places where the tinkle of goat bells sound like wind chimes in the distance: the places where you can stop the car in the middle of the road and turn off the motor: and watch the springbok leaping in the distance. And then: the generator hum: the pop of a cold Savannah: the Rolling Stones on the PA in some bar: the natter of laughter and conversation. I'm rolling down Highway 62: this is America's old Route 66 crossed with Hwy 61: with no speed limits: no limits at all sometimes: just what you come across: and what finds you. Roll down the windows in the heat: and be whoever you want to be.
The Zamani Grill: self proclaimed "Smallest Bar on Route 62." I don't know if that's true, but I like the idea. There's not enough room outside to park a tour bus, but there are giant hearts inside, and the place smells like good food, and soon enough: another galvanized stage: and the Blues is back in Town. Yeah, Savannah me up, darlin,' I've got a story for you now.
My Dark Horse Blues Tour creeps and storms across South Africa's Western Cape until mid- December.
