Carol’s Column

Blowing into Jo'burg on a brew of goodwill and beans

Hi Gus. Where were you in our moment of need?

Gus is a legendary father of good friends who is always mentioned in times of crisis. Known for his Macgyver-like qualities, he is probably able to fashion a vehicle's propshaft from a wire coathanger. What's more, he's resourceful, innovative, independent - even if he refuses to eat soup greens.

It happened a few days ago that in the face of all opposition, my daughter and I found ourselves driving to Johannesburg from Cape Town.

“You can't drive alone,” everyone said. “Two women in the middle of nowhere, it's dangerous.

“You can get hijacked, attacked, raped, worse ... This is South Africa.”

Naturally, as one does in such circumstances, we disregarded the voices of doom and on Saturday afternoon round about four departed for Johannesburg in a geriatric jalopy which had seen better nights.

As always, the car was so well-packed that the shocks were centimetres off the road.

Our first problem came on the stretch before Laingsburg. Signs proclaimed a stoppage because of roadworks. “Be patient. There is a 10-minute wait” the large board said. A light flashed red. By now it was dark and we were alone in the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly there was a man beside the driver's window. Oh my God - danger!

“Is it locked?” I hissed. “We should have had Gus with us!”

“He and his hair wouldn't fit into the car,” retorted my daughter.

She has a point. Until the gold-price rises, Gus has vowed not to cut his hair. As you can imagine, it's almost at his kneecaps.

The guy waved and my daughter rolled down the sheet of glass separating us from Lord knows what.

“Good evening, I'm sorry you have to wait,” he said, “but it won't be long.” He smiled and continued along the queue of cars and trucks now lined up behind us.

“You see,” said my daughter, “your hysteria was uncalled for.”

At Beaufort West we discovered the radiator had almost run dry.

“Don't panic,” said the garage assistant, who filled up and handed us a large plastic bottle filled with water.

“Just in case,” he said.

We slept over at a small, impeccable bed-and-breakfast in Richmond for R60, then left before the sun had launched itself.

We didn't notice menacing hijackers, rapists, and murderers, but what we did observe was the bonding between drivers. Large trucks, cars pulling caravans and slower vehicles like ours would pull over to the side and let faster cars shoot past.

Lights flicking to signal gratitude was a ritual which everyone observed and the goodwill on that long north road was palpable. As an extra precaution, we stopped frequently for abominable coffee, shocking tea and soggy cheeseburgers. And then at a garage and eatery somewhere near Springfontein it happened. We pulled in and because our feet had frozen into icicles, ordered the soup of the day - bean soup.

Two steaming large plates of thick brew arrived, spoons upright in the glorious mixture. This was a soup of gods, a symphony, a culinary sonnet.

“Made only with beans,” said Sannie when I asked for the recipe. “Six different varieties.”

“And soup greens?”

“Never,” she replied, “one never adds soup greens to a good soup.”

Gus, are you listening?

That bean soup was just what these travellers needed and a few hours later we blew into Johannesburg on a high note.

■