Who's Driving This Thing?

Who’s Driving This Thing?

Right. Before you follow me down some questionable gravel road, across a border post, or into a campsite that may or may not exist, you should probably know who’s holding the steering wheel.

Fair warning: it’s me.

My name is Rupert. I’m from Zululand — the real Zululand. Green, humid, snake-in-the-long-grass, sweat-through-your-khaki-shorts kind of Zululand. These days I live about 40 minutes from the KZN Blue Flag beaches: close enough to smell the sea, far enough from the salt that my appliances still have a fighting chance.

I’m first-language German, second-language English, third-language Afrikaans, and can find my way around a bit of Zulu — although Afrikaans regularly elbows its way up the rankings depending on the situation, the company, and the quality of the braai.

In other words, I argue with myself in three languages, lose all the arguments, and eventually conclude that the language best spoken is Springbok-Deutsch.

That strange combination is probably the reason this whole thing exists.

The German half of me wants everything packed in order, labelled, torqued to spec and filed under Ordnung muss sein. The South African half of me knows Africa will take that beautiful plan, set it on fire, and hand me back the ashes by lunchtime.

Ashes I will probably turn into a damn good braai.

Travelling on Gravel is what happens in the gap between those two men.

Most of the time, I am not alone in this madness. Riding shotgun is Sherise, the official passenger princess, photographer, snack supervisor and self-appointed “little helper”. She is convinced I need regular assistance with things like knowing the speed limit, slowing down for corners, and generally not driving as if I am being chased by border officials.

She is an amazing DJ, which is important on long gravel roads.

She is also terrible at navigation, which is less ideal on long gravel roads.

Then there is Brody, who is either a master at packing the bakkie or simply very confident near camping equipment — the final verdict is still under review. Tetris does not faze him, naps come naturally, and if you give him half a chance behind the wheel, he will get you wherever you want to go quickly. Possibly too quickly.

He can achieve things with wheeled transport which The Stig only ever dreamed of, which is impressive, mildly concerning, and best not encouraged near border posts.

Around the fire, he is a budding contender for the title of braai master. The only real problem is that, being in his late teens, there is always a fair chance he may eat the food before it reaches anyone else.

And then there is Remington, the German Shorthaired Pointer who believes she should be included in every trip, every stop, every braai, and every decision ever made.

Sadly for her, she cannot always come along.

When she does, she brings a very specific skill set: eating snacks, chasing anything that moves, and providing running commentary at a volume no reasonable dog should be capable of. She is loyal, enthusiastic, dramatic, and quite possibly the most vocal dog you will ever meet.

What I actually do for money

I’m an insurance broker. I spend my days advising people on every conceivable way their life can go wrong, and then pricing it.

Believe it or not, I like the job. I’m also pretty good at it, except when I have to have an argument with an insurer. That has been known to affect my blood pressure.

But spending your days thinking about worst-case scenarios has a side effect. Eventually, you need to drive into the actual sticks to get your soul back.

So I sell risk for a living, then go and find some on purpose.

The Germans have a word for the feeling that sends me out there: Fernweh — far-sickness. The opposite of homesickness. An ache for somewhere you have not yet been.

I have it permanently.

There is no cure.

I’ve checked.

The one word

A while back, someone cornered me at a braai and asked what my single greatest passion was.

Brutal question.

Food, fishing, hunting, conservation, dogs, family, meeting strangers who become mates, drinking beer, making fire, watching the Springboks win — how do you boil all of that down to one thing?

Eventually, I found the word.

Exploring.

Because exploring is the cheat code. It contains all of it.

Explore far enough and you’ll find new food, new water to fish, new people, and at least three things you did not know you needed to worry about. This is especially true in Africa.

In normal life, I am painfully efficient. I will not take the long way to the shops for romance. That is nonsense.

There are things to do.

But show me a dirt detour, a faint track, a road that looks like it may become a problem, and suddenly the German efficiency gets very quiet.

Maybe that explains more of my life than I should admit.

The road less travelled. The one that could end with me in a world of trouble, digging myself out with a Wolf-Garten spade and a fair amount of stubbornness.

What I’m good for around camp

Things break on these trips.

Kaputt.

That is where I earn my keep: running repairs, recoveries, setting up camp, packing the bakkie so nothing rattles loose at 80 on corrugations, and having a plan A, plan B, and plan Z for when Africa laughs at the first 25 letters.

And then there is the fire.

The fire is mine.

I am the self-proclaimed braai master, potjie whisperer, and deeply primitive keeper of the coals.

Me man. Me make fire.

And a good one at that.

What you’ll find here

This is not glossy safari nonsense.

No champagne with a cherry while the sun kisses the savannah.

This is the real version: gravel roads, border posts, wrong turns, breakdowns, campsites, costs, gear that works, gear that doesn’t, fires, food, dogs, family, good beer, and the kind of places that make the admin worthwhile.

For now, I’m not here to sell you a polished travel package. Not yet anyway. When that changes, I’ll be upfront about it.

Right now, this is me, a vehicle that has seen things, a German Shorthaired Pointer, an awesome family, and a continent that does not do refunds.

Real routes.

Real breakdowns.

Real fires.

And good beer.

If the idea of leaving the tar, getting a bit lost, and watching an African sun go down somewhere with no name gets your heart going: willkommen.

You’re in the right place.

Now stop reading about it.

There’s gravel out there.