Answer: Family.
I remember that, at one stage of our married life, my wife’s family were giving us a hard time (or, so I thought at the time), so I developed this motto: “Marry an orphan”, and offered it as advice to others. At another time, my family was being a pain (or, so I thought at the time), with the result that I expanded the motto into: “Be an orphan, and marry an orphan”. But, in truth, I didn’t really mean it.
It’s so easy to take family for granted. Just like herpes, they’re always there. Even if you don’t see one another all the time, when you meet again, it’s as though you’ve never been apart. You can pick up a conversation on a topic that you last discussed three months ago and continue where you left off. Family feels like home; family is home.
Both Linda and I came from happy homes, with parents who were desperately in love with one another, and were, ultimately, only separated by death. Sometimes, I think we didn’t realise how blessed we were. I believe that we, in our marriage, established such a family life for our children.
I was reminded of the solidarity of family when I rode Linny II through the Karoo in December, headed for Gauteng, via the adventurous route (dirt roads, dust, mud, river crossings, etc.). Without initially realising it, when I rode across the northern reaches of the Karoo, I went off the grid as far as cellphone reception was concerned.
About 50 years ago, being uncontactable wouldn’t have been an issue. It was generally accepted that we might not hear from one another—apart from a postcard hurriedly scribbled in some Algemene Handelaar*—for the duration of a trip. And often the postcard would only be delivered after you had returned safely. Not so in our modern era; with cellphones, and iPhones, and tablets, and social networks, we can now—in real time—know exactly when our friends take a shower, whose business premises they are patronising, or what they are having for breakfast, let alone where they are, at any moment of the day.
I have developed a habit of updating my Facebook status when I am on the road in order to let my children (and other friends) know where I am, and, implicitly, that I am still alive. This has become the norm, so, when I didn’t do it (not for want of trying) for the whole of Wednesday, 18 December, last year, my family—understandably—got a bit twitchy. Meanwhile, I was really enjoying myself, riding some spectacularly bad dirt roads that had been hastily repaired after the rains.
Midway between nowhere and somewhere else, I was carrying full camping gear, food for a week, five litres of water, and four litres of reserve fuel for the bike, so I felt fine, knowing that everything was under control. I reckoned that, if things went pear-shaped, I could probably walk (or drag myself) to safety. I’m a survivor.
Shortly before reaching Sutherland, having intersected with the tarred road after a long sojourn in the bundu, I came to a place called Verlatenkloof. I decided to stop for the night at this idyllic spot that had a beautiful camp-site with no electricity, no television, and no city lights to spoil my anticipated view of the star-filled night sky. I felt like staying there for ever. Then I realised that there was also no cellphone signal.
When I asked the owners if I might be able to make contact via cellphone from the top of the pass, they urged me—with typical country hospitality—to use their land-line to contact my daughter. This offer I accepted, while feeling bad that they wouldn’t allow me to reimburse them. I got no reply to my daughter’s mobile phone, so I left a voice message to say that I was alive and well. Because of some lurking electronic glitch, or—as W. S. Gilbert put it—“owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy”, my daughter did not receive an alert that there was a voice message waiting for her.
By morning, having not heard from me for almost 24 hours, my family started to worry. You know the feeling; “I’m sure everything is all right, but…”. They weren’t sure of Linny II’s registration number, so the first step was to go through my photos on Facebook until they found a picture that showed the number-plate. In truth, this was a waste of time, since Linny II’s number-plate had fallen off hundreds of kilometres back, so I was travelling incognito. Armed with the registration number, my daughter phoned the police in Ceres. Contrary to what you are probably thinking, she had very pleasant dealings with the constable on duty, but, obviously, being reported missing somewhere on 400-kilometres of remote gravel road is unlikely to yield instant results.
Half-an-hour after the call to the police, I posted a message on Facebook to say that I was in Sutherland, and the drama was over.
I was left feeling somewhat conflicted. On one hand, I felt bad that they had had all the worry while I was enjoying myself, but, on the other, it was nice to know that they were worried. I knew of someone who died in his home and it was four days before his body was discovered, because he had no one to look out for him. I am grateful that I am not in that situation.
So, now I’m investigating satellite phones, transponders, passive trackers, trails of breadcrumbs, balls of string, and the like. I’m planning to go over the border this winter, so this is quite important. I thought that as a back-up, I might try defaulting on my income tax payments just before I go. I’m pretty sure that South African Revenue Services would find me quite quickly.
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*General Dealer – The kind of country shop that functioned as the greengrocer, stationer, Post Office, telephone exchange, tobacconist, bridal shop, bridle shop, Chevrolet dealer, hardware shop, Massey Ferguson tractor showroom, tearoom, and social hub; a sort of “mall-in-a-box”.