My wild camping night was the most peaceful yet. Although, I did hear snuffling and pawsteps, maybe hoofsteps around my tent at some point. And then I needed to step outside for that late night bathroom visit. I was so nervous about what I’d find when I opened my tent. But I had to do it. So I did. And what a surprise I got! A sky full of bright stars and crispy fresh air infused with ear-ringing silence. When my heart stopped pounding from its fight or flight readiness, it filled to bursting with gratitude and wonder. And relief, at not being a tasty snack for a late night foraging, wild imagination predator.
I resolved not to repeat the homeless stress of the previous day, and very reluctantly re-introduced a boring rule from my previous drift of securing a camping spot for the night by 3pm. Big yawn. But by now I’d made up with the Universe and I trusted that somewhere awesome would pop onto my radar in a weirdly cool way, by 3pm, and it did. More about that later though. It was off-to-Hobhouse day, because I’d seen on Property24 that land was super cheap in Hobhouse (suspiciously so) and I have this dream of setting up a writers’ / spiritual retreat for women, so it had piqued my curiosity. Also, I do love poetic coincidences and after all, Emily Hobhouse was an incredible champion of Women’s rights. Also Hobhouse is a stones throw away from Lesotho, which is untamed and beautiful.
I followed the signs and Google suggestions, but when it said turn right, and right-turning took me onto a dirt road, I decided to second-guess Google and look for the real road. As you know, Google and I barely speak anymore because of deep-rooted mistrust as a direct result of what I see as thinly disguised, misogynistic attempts at annihilating me. Google may actually be the first mass e-serial killer, with lost bodies scattered all over the world. How many are women? I’m just wondering. I didn’t trust that some oligarch or idiot hadn’t decided to rename the road overnight and Google had just gone along with it. But, it turned out to be the correct road and I saw that I would be travelling for 104km on this correct dirt road. I was horrified. But I had no choice if I wanted to investigate Hobhouse. By the end of the day I’d be wishing for that corrugated road. The day’s journey was not going to be a smoothe one.
Although I was grumpy about the road at first, I found myself enjoying the solitude of the drive after a while. No cars, no houses. Just wide open spaces and lots of birds. I stopped to make coffee on the side of the road… well, I actually just stopped in the middle of the road… and it was so quiet and peaceful. I could hear bees buzzing and I’m almost sure I could hear the teeny, tiny footsteps of the ants walking all over my sarmi, when I turned my back for a moment. They’re organised!
Eventually I arrived in Hobhouse. The sign said I had. But there was no town. Just a lot of empty, dilapidated houses and one small shop. Not even a Pep or petrol station. And that’s when I realised why the land was so cheap. Actually, it’s quite expensive, given the state of the town. I was so disappointed! It’s in such a beautiful area, I couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t been developed, at least as a tourist destination. I would have loved to create a retreat in that area.
It was when I tried to leave that I got the full picture. The road out of Hobhouse is almost non-existent. At one point I was driving on the sandy edge of the road, wishing for my dirt road from earlier in the day. And it’s a long and winding non-road when you’re weaving your way between potholes for many kilometres. So long and winding. My best was the warning sign that said potholes, with a speed limit of 80kph. I thought “that’s not a speed limit, it’s an aspiration”. If anyone ever managed to drive at anywhere near to 80kph on that road then they probably need (a) a new car (b) 20 shots of tequila for their nerves (c) no doubt a hospital and finally (d) an award… maybe a Darwin award for stupidity.
I was lucky though, because there was this grader carving a new dirt road next to the old used-to-be-road and so I just drove slowly (but faster than before) behind and munched on my ant and egg mayo sarmis while looking online for a home for the night. And that is why Hobhouse is a ghost town. No way in and no way out, without losing your sanity. I was playing “Hotel California” by the Eagles ironically, to amuse myself. “You can check in anytime you like, but you can never leave”. It’s about hedonistic excess, so either it’s typically appropriate for a small town like Hobhouse, or totally not. I’ll never know though, because I did manage to leave and headed for Fouriesburg, where the Universe had booked me into a campsite that was pretty close to paradise.