Cape to Coast (pt. 2): Rhodes

Ramblings on a road trip from Cape Town to KwaZulu Natal with my brother, Greg.

The few lights of Barkly East faded into the background as we trundled past the sign pointing towards Rhodes. Cell phone signal puttered out within minutes on the dirt road, leaving behind our exit strategies as we went further down the deserted path. We could see nothing on either side of the car but felt ourselves winding higher and higher into the mountains. The further away from civilisation we drove, the dodgier the dirt road seemed to become.

Soon, the only light sources were our headlights and the moon. The stars were out in greater force than I’d ever seen; a million pin pricks glowing through an infinitely black sky. We drove closer and closer to the stars, as Greg’s watch showed our altitude at 1875 metres. The only reminder that we were on earth, and not sailing through space, were the hares that kept springing away from our headlights.

The dirt road seemed without end, and our tradition of arriving late was starting to wear on what was left of my nerves. Greg, unconcerned, did a poor job of soothing my anxiety as we capered around potholes and left clouds of dust behind us. Luckily, we had a family friend awaiting us with the promise of a warm bed and a warmer welcome.

Slowly, little dots of light punctured the blackness as we neared the town of Rhodes. It was a surreal experience entering the town at night: as houses materialised out of the darkness, it felt as though we’d crossed a threshold into another world. A world suspended in time, or rather, separate from time.

Bridget, having promised our mother that we’d be safe, was waiting anxiously for our arrival. Stepping into her home was like walking into a movie set for Little House on the Prairie. The house used to be a doctor’s rooms in the 80’s and became a home in the late 90’s. To say that it has character is an understatement. The wooden floors creak with every step. It appears they have an unspoken agreement with the cupboards: when a floorboard is stepped on, the cupboard opposite will groan and shudder. The kitchen is a jumble of old and new: an ancient Aga stove sits front and centre, while an electric kettle waits on the dresser. The faded porcelain sink has seen its fair share of dishes. The water that gushes from the tap is ice-cold and delicious. The bathrooms are Goldilocks-approved: not too big, not too small, but just right. Everything about the house, from its cosiness to its old-fashioned charm, invites you in.

But, not for long. Bridget had booked dinner at Walkerbouts, the local watering hole at the other end of town. Of course, in such a tiny town, it would only take 5 minutes to walk there.

I was not prepared for the cold. Oh, the cold. It bites into any body part not covered or pocketed, frosting the tip of your nose and dusting your hair. But you must brave the walk, for the sake of the stars. So, the only possible pace was brisk as we headed to Walkerbouts.

Walkerbouts is a Rhodes must-visit. Immediately upon opening the door, it’s clear that Rhodes has a significant fly-fishing fan base. From bumper stickers and trophies to cap collections and fishing manuals, Walkerbouts appeals to a very specific audience. Such is the appeal of the fly-fishing in Rhodes that Tom Sutcliffe, renowned journalist and avid fly-fisher, frequents Walkerbouts when he’s in the country. In fact, scrawled on several walls around the establishment are sketches of trout that Sutcliffe addressed to Dave.

Once your eyes have acclimatised to the barrage of fishing paraphernalia, you begin to notice other eccentricities. Two frogs scull around in a barren tank – their entertainment value is questionable, as I originally thought that they were dead. The bar has one of the most impressive collections of alcohol I’ve ever seen. Notably, the range of brandies and beers are most extensive…

Dave Walker, the eponymous owner of Walkerbouts, is a local legend. He has the same benign, bearded presence as Santa Claus, topped off with a few brandy and cokes. Without any prompting at all, Dave regaled us the day’s skinner (I had a feeling, verified later on, that it takes very little prompting for Dave to tell any story). Apparently, someone had come all the way to Rhodes to fly fish and had forgotten to bring a reel. Little did this poorly equipped traveller know; his antics were the talk of the town barely 10 minutes after he left the information desk. They say news travels fast in a small town: in Rhodes, news travels faster…

The next morning, I was woken by Greg whooping in boyish excitement. His water bottle, left in the car overnight, had frozen solid. It took a lot of convincing to get me out of bed; my electric blanket had lulled me into thinking that I could live forever under those blankets, peering out of my frosted window at the quiet streets. Bridget’s kitchen was filled with sharp rays of sunlight and curls of steam as our oats simmered on the stove.

Stepping outside for a quick walk before the next leg of our trip, I was struck with how much of an effect the town had already had on me. Rhodes could wrap me up in frosty mornings and slow-paced living, and I would have no objections. In the daylight, the town is quaint, slightly scruffy, and picturesque. Perhaps an acquired taste, but the peaceful aura and unpretentious charm of Rhodes appeals to me. Greg and I have already made plans to return in February for stoepsitfees, the annual community festival during which residents open their homes to share their hobbies, specialities, and talents.

Greg shared my reluctance to leave; although just a short visit, Rhodes left a lasting impression on us. We departed with promises of return, and the charismatic little town soon faded from view as we trailed through the mountains.