Carol’s Column

Heaven help me

"IT'S a lovely day," said the lion of the household. Shaking his thinning mane and finishing off his tax return.

"Let's spend the day in the country and grab some fresh air."

So there we were, tootling along, one Sunday morning, when most sane people are still sleeping off the night before.

Choc-a-bloc full of hastily-packed picnic baskets, children, tennis racquets, fishing rods and Simon-the-mutinous-computer-toy that bleeped and burped continuously.

With four children, any trip over half an hour is a major expedition.

Padkos oozed and made its way across the sticky upholstery into ever-masticating mouth-holes.

There was a glorious feeling of freedom as we whizzed out-of-belching Johannesburg towards the rolling hills in the distance, increased by the discovery that son number three was still wearing his striped yellow and brown long-John pyjamas.

At Fourways, the mecca of frustrated traffic officers, a canary-yellow convertible with glittering chrome-plated hubcaps, stopped dead on our tail.

The driver, a Tate-like figure, with bull shoulders and a lilac safari suit, strode towards our car.

Full of sunshine smiles, he thrust his head through my window.

"If that cross-eyed joker in the back doesn't stop pulling faces at me," he said, "I'll knock his blerry block off."

It is not nice to be unpleasant on a happy summer morning, besides, blood is thicker than water, and that was my child he was talking about. So, I rolled up the window and requested my husband to drive away.

It was unfortunate he didn't remove his head in time.

Towards Hartbeespoort dam we rode, past the pineapple, sweet potato, and smoked-snoek-from-Cape-Town roadside stalls, savouring the country air.

I opened the window again: "Breathe deeply," I said to my family as 43 motor bikes thundered past.

The fragrant, recycled air from a sewerage farm wafted through the car, contrasting with the lingering, yet persistent smelling exhaust fumes from the bikes.

We'd been travelling close on an hour by now and things were getting tense. The kids wanted a coke, I wanted a kleinhuis and the driver wanted to abandon ship and return to Johannesburg.

We made a pit-stop at a quaint cafe called "Te Huur". The owner, sans teeth and immaculately dressed in curlers and scarlet crimplene, ignored us. So we in turn, ignored her and departed cokeless into the heat.

Hartbeespoort dam nestles among the hills, and up the side of the steepest hill of all, runs a cableway taking intrepid travellers up to see the spectacular view. Now, it's not that I'm scared of heights. I'm terrified of them.

"I'll stay and watch the car," I volunteered gamely.

"No, we're a family, let's do things together," they replied.

In typical family way, they bundled themselves into a red swaying car and left me standing.

Which is why I found myself incarcerated and alone in a precarious blue bubble, suspended from a thin cable.

As the car lurched away from the reassuring, solid concrete cable station, I noticed instead of glass windows, there was air.

Ahead, I could see five familiar figures grinning and waving like lunatics. I shut my eyes and enjoyed the view. And while the pulleys jerked me slowly to my doom, I was quietly sick in the plastic doggie bag I carry around for emergencies.

I opened an eye and found a Cape Vulture glaring at me. I thought, he's strategically placed to pick my bones when I fall.

At the upper station they couldn't unclench my grip. I was frozen solid. It was only the horrendous thought of doing a round trip that got me out of that cab.

The view was magnificent: The algae-green dam shimmered in the sunlight and the soft Magaliesberg mountains rolled away to who cares where.

A superbly aesthetic corrugated-iron refreshment hut, resplendent with cooldrink signs, obliterated the southern aspect almost entirely.

Large metal notices were cleverly placed at short intervals along the barbed-wire fence saying: "Throwing stones is a criminal act," and "Prtext cut off in photograph who trespasses will be arrested."

We speculated on the huge man-made metal suicide leap jutting out of the hillside until I saw a hang-glider flap his paper wings and take a leap.

The trip down was uneventful. It will suffice to say they had to drag me screaming to the car.

We found the most delightful picnic spot purely by chance when the car left the road as the driver turned to clout a noise at the back.

What could be nicer than eating tuna and grit sandwiches in a ditch, inhaling dust and fumes as you watch the cars whizz by?

A brief visit to the oceanarium took care of R8 without difficulty.

At the crocodile pond I realised we'd lost our son-the-bumble-bee in his striped pyjamas.

And indeed, with their prehensile jaws and big grins, the crocs looked particularly well-fed.

We found him a little later fishing for the tiger fish in the large aquarium.

Some remarkable seals performed tricks while two tortoises in a quiet corner enthralled spectators by doing what comes naturally.

Ever eager for knowledge, a small boy asked his mother what they were doing.

"Playing tok-tokkie," she replied.

On the way home we lost the road and took a scenic drive through Pretoria, which on Sundays makes Pompeii look like a bustling metropolis.

"That was fun", the family said as we drove up the driveway, losing the rear-view mirror on the gatepost. "Let's do it againtext cut off in photograph

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