Tag Archives: slow

Taster Trip 2014 | Return to the Mountains

I plan to be at O.R. Tambo nearly two hours early, unsure if a Jo’burg-Maseru flight counts as international or domestic, but assuming the former.

Goodbyes in Pretoria. Hugs. Kisses. Parting words. Meanwhile, an hour passes.

Winston speeds down the highway, south to Jozi, west to the airport. The flight information clutched in my fist wrinkles by the minute as they tick by; time before departure hits the 95 minute mark, then 90, then 85…

I leap from the car and hug the team goodbye once more, not yet appreciating that eight months will pass before we can be together again. Racing into the departure terminals (A – international or B – domestic?), I beeline for the South African Airways kiosks in terminal A.

Punching in my details and booking reference numbers produces an error message. The attendant directs me to terminal B (Domestic, really? Regional, she says). Of course.

Bag swinging behind me, I pause at an information desk to confirm. He points to an aisle of counters and wishes me well. Cheers, mate. Bag straining my neck, no South African Airways counter in sight, domestic, regional, or otherwise. The counter staff point me back down the terminal. U-turn and reverse. Bag beating against my bum, the South African Airways counters are for domestic flights only. She points me back the direction I came. This is getting old.

I query a passing SAA uniform, who speaks in rapid Zulu to the woman behind a closed counter for regional flights. I scurry under the ropes to check in. No, no checked bag. The gate closed 20 minutes ago? It’s taken me 20 minutes just to find this damn counter! Yes, thank you for holding the plane. Should I wait for someone to come by in a cart to drive me to the gate?

“No. Run.”

Barge through the passport check queue.

Skip to first in line at security and baggage scan.

Race through the halls to the very last passage in the entire airport: South African Airways regional flights.

One final boarding pass check, then alight the tram (breathing heavily) just before it pulls away from the gate to meet our waiting aircraft. An hour later and I set foot on Basotho soil once more, where I will wait for an hour and a half until my ride to Mokhotlong arrives.

Puleng: “Do you need anything in Maseru before we head back to Mokhotlong?”

Me: “Groceries would be nice, but it’s not necessary if there is no time.”

Puleng: “Becky, why should we rush?”

How variable the pace of life.


Pucketty Farm Stall

South Africa is filled with hidden gems. Take Pucketty Farm Stall for instance.

IMG_4154Tucked off a country road (curiously named ‘Main Road’) in the town of Underberg, KZN, is a cute little drop-by shop called Pucketty Farm Stall. If you survive the brutal onslaught of the feral Rhodesian Ridgeback at the front gate, wonders await you within.

IMG_4156A wealth of homemade preserves, cheeses, baked treats, and savoury pies line the walls. The wood slat walls and straw-littered floor are reminiscent of my aunt’s barn in (what was until so recently) rural Missouri.

IMG_4143 IMG_4147 IMG_4144Not unlike many a Missouri farm stall I’ve visited, Pucketty also operates on an honor system. None of this pay-at-the-till nonsense the city vendors insist upon. Pucketty harkens back to the good old days of filling out the logbook with your purchases, putting your cash in the bucket, and counting out your own change, goddammit – calculator provided for those above mental acrobatics.

IMG_4145The fantastically fresh whole great bread and South African fig preserves I greedily seized hardly lasted a week back in Mokhotlong.

So much for savouring a good thing.


Breaking Stride

One step, Two steps
Grabbing the pavement
Dragging it behind
Creating a breeze where the humid air
Has deemed such a luxury.

My feet and face are out of place in this slow-town, Ho-town, where thoughts are processed simply,  singly, deliberately.

I hardly glance at the group of men hissing and calling to me, beckoning me come. I smile. I wave. I continue.

“Sister, buy something. How much you want?” The woman waves her arm over woven trays covered in okra and peppers. I pass her as well.

“Becky! Good morning!” I have forgotten his name, or perhaps I never learned it, but he will surely greet me again as he has each morning. No need to stop today.

My mind races with a thousands thoughts that demand constant movement for proper categorization. My eyes dart from stall to stall, noting the absence of certain merchant friends and the sudden availability of new things to buy.

I pause.

I do need eggs –
“2 cedi please. Thank you, sister.”

I carry on.