DELORIS KOAN | When you flee disaster and the Karoo opens up like a lily

I am high on the Winterberg and it catches a cold quickly. The roads on the way up from Adelaide have been abrasive, scoured, klonky-klonk underfoot but Hetty, the 1200 GSA, has picked her way through three or four passes on this Makanzana-Spring Valley road, commonly known as the R344. It is marked as a thick white-line district road, but like many roads in SA, it can be reduced to a sketchy, skinny hustle around puddles, dongas and washouts.

Who doesn’t chuckle at some of the now-dumb and rusty signs which ask trucks to slow down, or sharp curves ahead when, really, there is barely a road to talk about and any trucker out here has definitely taken a wrong turn and is in the dwang. But right now, I am in joyous disbelief at the glory of the weather. It rained in Makhanda last night — a finale to a dark and scary time nursing sissie who turns out has bird flu.

But today, on my long way home I am soloing up into blue. Just blue and green and the bright, glittering stony bangle which leads me higher. I am overnighting at the mountain home built by my maths prof emeritus out of the alien poplar patch on the banks of a delightful stream somewhere under the peaks.

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If I stop to take a picture or try and ferret out what is being braaied by my exhaust through the saddle bags (it was a banana), there is always a Land Cruiser or bakkie that stops or does a thumbs up query. I am alone, but never feel truly isolated. One convivial hunter has Belgian father and son customers and they look like this is the most fun they too have ever had.

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