Cape Town to the Kalahari

A Love Letter Written in Dust, Fear, and Sheer Delusion

Firstly, it must be stated that road trips are often romanticized by people who forget about potholes, heatstroke, and the emotional instability caused by Google Maps. Nevertheless, this particular journey—from Cape Town to the Kalahari—was destined to become legend. Specifically, it was decided that four nights at Tswalu, my dream lodge in the Kalahari, would be reached not by plane, but by sheer willpower, caffeine, and my mother’s Honda Jazz.

At dawn, Cape Town was gently waved goodbye as we departed at 5 a.m., when the city was still asleep and we were painfully awake. At that moment, confidence was felt. After all, it was believed that this would simply be a long, scenic drive sprinkled with playlists, snacks, and mother-daughter bonding.

However, the universe had clearly read our itinerary and laughed.

What began as a scenic movie montage soon turned extraterrestrial, with mountains melting into endless plains and moonscapes that looked suspiciously NASA-approved. Along the way, fields shimmered, deserts stretched endlessly, and patches of flowers appeared like miracles someone forgot to advertise.

Without warning, rainstorms were driven through—one after another—each one dramatic enough to deserve its own soundtrack.

Cape Town to Springbok!

Our spirits were high, and we were excited! This road, Cape Town to Springbok, roughly 560 kilometres and about 6 to 7 hours, was handled with ease. We ate padkos, laughed about old stories and our optimism was irresponsibly nurtured.

Eventually, Springbok Inn was reached.  Our sanctuary for the night. This inn was perfect, the beds were comfortable, the rooms were quiet, and it felt safe.  Our sanity was restored. Dinner that evening was divine.  Our dignity thrown to the wind, we ate our lamb chops with our fingers. Without a doubt, happiness was at a high!.

That night, Mom and I slept like the dead.

The following morning, we mustered up more bravery to tackle the road from Spdeliciousto Upington—approximately 380 kilometres and about 4 to 5 hours. Thankfully, spirits were lifted by a stop at the Die Pienk Padstal.

In the middle of nowhere, here is this pink building with such personality, delicious food and nik naks to buy. My mother was so happy, she walked around telling me I could have anything I wanted in this shop.  Laughing at her madness, I opted for waffles and ice cream for breakfast, because judgment has no place on holiday.

We continued with sugar highs and reckless optimism.

One night in Upington!

By mid-afternoon, we had reached Upington. It was clear as daylight, the honeymoon phase was over.  We needed to rest and get there!  Unfortunately, the Hotel in Upington had other plans. Instead of silence, a full-blown Friday-night party was on the go! A DJ rocking in the courtyard.  Patrons are drinking cocktails.  Who were partying around the pool. Consequently, sleep was absolutely not on the agenda.

By morning, the exhaustion between mom and me had reached biblical levels. So, we irresponsibly skipped breakfast and hit the open road. Thinking we would come across another farm stall to explore.  By this stage, excitement had returned because the destination felt close. Reassuringly, Google Maps announced we had just four more hours to go! When she announced, turn right.

Unfortunately, that right turn changed everything.

A flat tyre in 48 degrees, HELP!

We were suddenly on a gravel road.  It felt charming. We sang, we laughed and enjoyed reminiscing, present and the future. Little did we know, the Northern Cape revealed itself as something far more serious—desolate, vast, and deeply unconcerned with human survival. At that point, Twin Peaks met Mad Max, and they both won.

Something felt wrong. The car was sluggish, a feeling experienced before.  Without panic, I carefully stopped the car. To make matters worse, the temperature was approximately 48 degrees, and shade was nonexistent.  And our water supplies were laughably low. We had one bottle to sip on! To add insult to injury, the spare tyre was also flat.

At that moment, hope was temporarily misplaced.

Bravely, my mother declared that we had this. Her confidence I had seen all my life, was a performance with valour and strength. Even though I could not laugh off the obvious. The reality was we were two women, alone, stranded, and melting in the car. With zero mobile signal. Mobile signal appeared and disappeared, teasing us like a cruel joke. Then, as if summoned by prayer or desperation, a white speck appeared in the distance. Slowly, it grew larger. Miraculously, it was a bakkie. Even more miraculously, there stood Jacques —a sheep farmer with a trailer full of newly purchased sheep.

Jacques had the kindest face and is a man who solves problems for sport.

Firstly, without hesitation. Our sheep farmer changed our tyre. Like a champion, he whipped out a can of air like some kind of rural wizardry. Jacques instructed us to follow him. At that point, obedience was immediate and unquestioning. However, things remained tense. By now, it was 2 p.m., food was nonexistent, and exhaustion was dangerous. Secondly, Jacques drove from pillar to post to find us a mechanic. Plugged and fixed our tyre was ready for the road.  Our friendly farmer, Jacques, organized supplies. Water for his sheep, for us and high fives. Lastly, my mother was fed a box of Romany Creams (the only thing we could find). Albeit, nutrition at its finest. And we were on our way!

Finally, we were on the road again. Encouragingly, Jacques insisted that despite a few potholes, we were strong enough to make it. Refusing payment, he asked only that when we get to Tswalu, we call him to let him know.  Or else he would drive to find us. While gratitude overwhelmed us, we said our goodbyes.

But then, the final boss appeared.

The Road to Kuruman!

The road to Kuruman. Without a doubt, this is the worst road I have ever survived. Relentlessly, potholes the size of our Honda Jazz attacked.

Terrifyingly, 18-wheeler trucks are charging at 120 km/h down the middle of the road. Yet, adding surreal beauty, kaleidoscopes of yellow and blue butterflies danced at the roadside.  It felt like a really bad trip on Mushrooms. Between Joc and me, we simultaneously screamed, laughed and cried out of pure and utter fear.

Again and again, we planned our funerals and then immediately congratulated ourselves on staying alive.

At one point, my mother screamed at me, “You have got this, DRIVE,” and her voice pierced my blood, and I did, just that. I drove with the courage of my convictions.  Like a rally car driver, missing massive potholes, weaving between 18-wheeler trucks. All, while believing the kaleidoscopes of butterflies were a message from God above. I have no photographs of this road. There was no time.

Sending me nature, keeping me strong in believing we would make it.

Four nights at Tswalu!

Miraculously, that 40 kilometres ended. Albeit we finally made it.  The road smoothed. Eventually, Tswalu appeared like a mirage. As the sun set, relief washed over us. That night, we ate overlooking the Kalahari.  We ate fine dining in one of the most sought-after 5-star lodges in Africa.  Owned by the Oppenheimer family, Tswalu. No doubt, an evolution into South Africa’s largest and most ambitious private conservation reserve. Life felt impossibly good. It was clear, after our dessert, we could not wait to lay our heads in pure luxury!

A while later, the lodge phone rang. I jumped up to answer it!  Amazingly, it was Jacques, checking that we had arrived. I thanked him over and over again. Sobbing on the phone.

It was then, I realized sometimes strangers are angels with sheep trailers.

Ultimately, the lesson was clear.  After all, you have to go through hell to get to heaven.