My good friend Les Bush is, at 60-plus, the Eternal Party Animal. In the words of some T-shirt bard, Les “fears no beer”. And he treats Jack Daniels with scant respect.
But when I invited Les down to our new home in the Karoo Heartland town of Cradock, he thought he’d spend a few days of peace, quiet and deep-navel contemplation in Meerkat Country. Read a book or five. Go for long walks in the fresh air. Get lots of sleep. Think on life, the universe and the little boerewors stand at the end of it all.
Ha! Three weeks later I poured him on to a Greyhound bus headed for Jo’burg — he was a broken man. Partied out. In fear of beer and the strong stuff that comes in tot glasses. Les had discovered the real soul of Cradock, a town that has seen its fair share of social and political crises over the centuries. A town that is now ready to party at the drop of an ostrich eyelash.
One thing you gotta know about the Karoo: there are dozens of festivals and gatherings all year round. If it’s not a biltong festival, it’s an olive festival. If it’s not an agricultural implement gathering, it’s a horsy affair with everyone (sometimes including the horse itself) in top hat and tails.
Dilettantes from the city who scoot through here once in a lifetime on the way to an over-priced, over-crowded beach rotisserie session on the coast will tell you the Karoo is flat and boring. Boy, are they mistaken.
First, the only time you will ever not see a range of mountains or a friendly flat-topped hill in the distance is when you visit the mini-village of Rietbron, somewhere between Beaufort West, Willowmore and next Sunday.
Second, they should try visiting Cradock in the spring, when the Fish River Canoe Marathon Show comes to town. The weirs and watercourses that run through the local farms are crowded with spectactors, supporters and competitors negotiating the rapids, ending with a hectic after-party along the banks of the Great Fish, where it curves into the heart of Cradock. You have to book bed-space well in advance or settle for sleeping in your Kombi somewhere on a shady lane.
Then, on a day in October, you’ll pass the elegant old Victorian Tuishuise on Market Street and suddenly feel like you’re an extra in The Great Race, that old classic movie starring hundreds of antique cars and the likes of Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon and Natalie Wood. It’s the annual Bentley Rally and the street hums with excitement as the beautiful grand dames of the open road strut their stuff before chugging across the Great Karoo at a leisurely, open-topped pace.
For those who like a bit more attitude and growl to their machines, there’s the Lion Rally, which brings in hundreds of gleaming motorcycles to the sprawling grounds of the Cradock Spa. It’s not, however, a bike rally in the old sense of the word. There are generally very few sightings of exposed “biker chick” bits, no one bites the heads off roosters or goes round to the old age home to terrify the centenarians (yes, despite all the parties, folks grow pretty old in these parts). It’s a family affair, with millions of rands-worth of bikes on display in front of an army of pop-up tents.
The locals are welcomed in the bikers’ midst and, on the Saturday morning, are treated to a howling cavalcade down the main street of Cradock, which is generally a pretty quiet avenue — even during rush hour.
But Cradock is still, in its deep soul, a farmer’s town. And when they held the Old Machine Show this year, all manner of steam-driven implements went on display. And again, the after-party was awesome. Even the seasonal Farmer’s Markets, held in the backyard of a gift shop and restaurant called Funky Farm, traditionally turns into a red wine party under the lime trees, with platters of cheese and olives and fresh-baked bread — and lots of conversation.
But the main reason Cradock has become such a social town is its warm tradition of home entertaining. When you’re invited to a huiskonsert at someone’s house, come hungry and ready for an evening of music and song. Everyone, from the communities of Lingelihle and Michausdal to the residents of central Cradock, can hold a harmony, tickle the ivories or play the Spanish guitar.
And when they sit down to Sunday lunch, no one talks about crime or money. They tell stories. Like the time a local Romeo spotted a pretty tourist wearing a silver toe ring. He sidled up to her and stage-whispered: “Hi there. Which homing pigeon club do you belong to?”