A Solo Adventure to the Mother City
Young Ronald's School Holiday in Slaapstad
It was a rite of passage in our family, one that my parents orchestrated with a mix of trust and perhaps a touch of mischief. When my sister and brother each reached Standard 3, they were bundled off alone on a Boeing 727 from Durban to Cape Town, entrusted to the care of my mother’s aunt, Margerite, and her husband, Donald. These were no ordinary relatives; Margerite and Donald held a small piece of South African history. They were the first couple to exchange vows in Afrikaans at the NG Kerk, shortly after the Second World War, breaking from the tradition of Dutch ceremonies that had lingered like an old colonial echo. Their family was deeply involved in Langehoven’s Saamwerk Kommittee, a nod to their commitment to Afrikaans culture and community.
Uncle Donald, with his no-nonsense demeanor, worked for the government in weights and measures—a role that made him something of a metric enforcer in the post-imperial era. He was the one who fined shopkeepers and stations stubborn enough to cling to imperial units. I’d heard stories of him pulling up to fuel stations in his massive bronze Valiant, filling the tank, then meticulously decanting and measuring the petrol to catch any discrepancies. The same went for greengrocers; he’d weigh their veggies and issue prosecutions if they fell short. Back home, my dad had one of those sturdy red railway station scales for measuring pockets of potatoes, and Uncle Donald would make the trip to calibrate it, ensuring everything was precise and fair.
So, when my turn came in Standard 3, under the watchful eye of my teacher Civvy—an ancient, bat-like figure with a peculiar fondness for maths that she enforced on us daily—I found myself at Durban airport, ticket in hand, ready for my own solo voyage. The Boeing 727 was a beast of a plane, its engines roaring louder than any tractor I’d ever heard chugging through the sugarcane fields. The flight was thrilling, a noisy ascent into independence, with the coastline unfolding below like a wrinkled map.
Upon landing in Cape Town, plans shifted slightly; Aunt Margerite and Uncle Donald were away on their own holiday, so I stayed instead with one of Andrew Elliot’s sons, a kind host who made me feel at home in the shadow of Table Mountain. My dad, ever the generous planner, had equipped me with enough pocket money to embark on a whirlwind of Springbok-Atlas bus tours. I hopped from one adventure to the next: circling the rugged peninsula with its crashing waves and fynbos-covered cliffs, ascending the iconic Table Mountain via cable car for panoramic views that stretched to the horizon, wandering the vine-draped streets of Stellenbosch and Paarl with their historic Cape Dutch architecture, strolling through the lush botanical wonders of Kirstenbosch Gardens, and even venturing to a game reserve whose name has long faded from my memory, where I spotted wildlife roaming free under the vast African sky.
One day I hope on the train from Plumstead to Cape Town and walked around the city. I was awestruck. It was the first major metropolis I had visited. And all on my own steam.
To capture it all, I was armed with an Instamatic camera—a simple, foolproof gadget from Kodak that made photography accessible to anyone. It used drop-in film cartridges, no fussing with threading rolls, and with a quick snap and flash cube, you’d have your memories preserved on square prints, ready to develop at the local chemist. It was my constant companion, clicking away at every scenic stop, turning fleeting moments into tangible keepsakes.
The highlight—or perhaps the shock—of the trip was a weekend escape to Yzerfontein, a sleepy coastal spot where the Atlantic Ocean met the shore in a relentless, icy embrace. Dipping my toes in for the first time, I was stunned by the bone-chilling cold of the Cape waters, a far cry from the warm Indian Ocean baths back in Durban. It was invigorating, a reminder of how vast and varied our country could be.
That childhood jaunt to Cape Town planted seeds of wanderlust that would bloom later in life. I’d return years on, crammed into the family Mercedes for a road trip with my parents, tracing those same routes with fresh eyes. And eventually, the Mother City called me back, as I headed there to study at Maties, Stellenbosch University, where the adventures of Standard 3 felt like a distant, noisy prelude to the chapters yet to unfold.
