This story first appeared in the Sunday Times Travel Weekly
A massive cold front is sweeping across the Western Cape and in a brief
gap in the clouds I notice that snow has accumulated on the peaks that ring
Franschoek. “Let’s drive up to the top
of the pass to check it out,” I suggest to my wife. I’m feeling delicate after a friend’s
birthday party in the town the night before and I want to postpone the
inevitable jostling with European tourists in faux- French boutiques.
On the pass it’s three and half degrees outside and I know the wind is
gale-force because the rain is falling up
the mountain slopes. On the straighter
sections of road I steal glances at the view of the valley which, even in the Cape
storm, is a beautiful patchwork of copper-leaved vineyards.
At the top I pull onto the gravel shoulder and we catch a glimpse of the
snowy tops before the cloud envelopes everything again. It’s then that I realise I have a desperate
urge to go to the loo and it’s not going to be a quick behind-the-car job. Never mind, I know there’s a convenience at
the start of the hiking path so I drive the short distance down the gravel road
and park.
I pull my rain-jacket on and dash to the little brick structure, hood up
against the whipping sheets of rain.
It’s with relief that I find the long-drop, eco-loo hygienically tolerable,
if almost pitch-black inside. The relief
only lasts until I stand up and reach down for my trousers and I hear the
horrible muffled thud of something falling into the hole.
For a few seconds I stand frozen, semi-crouched, until the curses
subside and I’ve established that my wallet has fallen out of the unzipped chest
pocket of my rain-jacket and into the darkness of the eco-loo. Raise
and lower the seat three times to flush – says the sign. Hands on knees
I stare into the dreadful abyss. After last night my stomach is in no state to
deal with this and a demolition team is crashing around in my skull.
At the bottom of the black hole I can make out only the slightest hint
of something white. It could be the old
receipts sticking out of my wallet. Or
it could be something less pleasant. I
toy briefly with the idea of reaching down, but no, the thought of what I may
lay my hand on deters me. Maybe I should
just flush it away and cancel my cards and depart with some of my now well and
truly shredded dignity intact. No-one
need know. But my driver’s licence is down there and without it I can’t get my
flight back to Johannesburg tomorrow.
Nope, I’m not putting my arm down there.
I realise I’m getting a cold behind so I pull up the trousers and start
to devise a plan.
Back in the car my dear wife – I love her so much – keeps a straight face
as I explain how I’m going to get out of this sticky predicament.
Down the pass we go to the supermarket in search of some tools, my fingers
firmly crossed, hoping that no-one will go in there after me and add to the
mess I’m in. In the check-out queue I
convince myself that the women ringing up the braai-tongs and torch knows
exactly why I need them. I try to act
normally.
Then all the way up the winding pass again, windscreen-wipers beating as
furiously as my temper. I park the car
and head back into the tempest hoping with all my heart that no-one is watching
me as I scuttle across the car park in the horizontal rain with my newly
acquired wallet rescue kit and a plastic bag
The operation is mercifully quick and soon we’re heading back down the
pass. For once I’m looking forward to
those boutiques full of scented soaps and aromatherapy candles.
