Doing field work on the Highveld in South Africa always has its hang ups. When we are making a field plan we always leave in some flex time in the schedule for flat tires, the medical needs of accident prone colleagues, and the pursuit of serendipitous findings. We don’t, however, count on rain in the dry season. My colleague, Stephen, has been working in Seekovlei for over a decade and hasn’t had a rain day. We heard a rumor of rain from Nic the barman last night. He’s younger than most the folks around here, a sportsman with a rugby career cut short by a back injury. He carries plates with the utmost caution and tension in his neck. As we’re lingering after dinner, delaying the grim cold night at The Vogel’s Nest, Nic tells us of rain in the forecast with the smile we remember from past visits and we’re not sure if he is joking or not. The Nest is one of Charlotte’s many properties. We suspect Charlotte Viviers has outlived everyone else in her family and has inherited several houses which she rents to visitors without changing the contents. The Nest is a small two room concrete block structure and has no heat source. We stayed in her dead mother’s house last year and while The Lagaai Roi is larger, at least the geyser (hot water heater pronounced geezer) at the Nest works. These are the nights when we wish we could drink brown liquor and the mornings we wish we could sleep in. We got out from under the layers of old musty wool blankets to a breakfast of instant coffee and hot chocolate—the later makes the former more tolerable—and oatmeal. This is our standby breakfast when there is only a hot water kettle available. The sky was dripping a bit of rain but we decided to head to the Klip River to do our work without worry that it would blow over in no time. After the 30 minute drive over gravel and dirt roads and another 15 through the fields, opening and closing rusty fences with various and often tricky latching devices, we arrived on site. The drip had increased to a continuous spattering and we decided to sample the trench Konah had dug in the floodplain on the previous day before setting up the expensive GPS surveying equipment in the rain. (We borrowed the equipment from the University of Witswatersrand Geography Department and while it is a bit outdated and we were tempted to set it up and risk a slight dampening of the thing, we didn’t want to be held responsible for any damage. Besides, in cases of equipment failure, outright calamity is much preferred to general misuse because accidents are more acceptable than bad decisions and make much better stories.) After filling the trench and while we were holding the debate about accidents and bad decisions, the rain really picked up, becoming the steady soaking we are used to experiencing every day in Wales. We decided to pack it up and head back to Memel. Fortunately, the Memel Hotel has a pub, the only one in this “Ultimate Tourist Destination,” and the fire is always going in the wood-burning stove in the corner. The people here are friendly, especially in bad weather after they’ve been drinking all day. Martin, the owner is sympathetic to our plight even though he greeted us the night before by saying “Strangers! We will have to kill you.” No one seems to mind us hanging out all day even though we are the only ones not smoking cigarettes and speaking Afrikaans. We’ve already bought a painting by Johan, the Picasso of Memel, and had our laundry done. While I’m enjoying the lekker selection of classic rock, and awaiting the start of the Tri Nations Rugby Test between New Zealand and South Africa so we can root for the Springboks and switch from drinking coffee to beer, the rumor of snow tomorrow makes me want to drink a few glasses of Amarula and curl up with the dog in front of the fire. The place is getting packed and smokier as the national anthems are sung. Time for drinks.
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