Actually that’s bullshit. I haven’t felt Christmassy even
once yet. Summer has barely shown its stupid face, the unending rain has gotten
all over my patio’s new scatter cushions (serious, wtf?) and I haven’t even sniffed
a mince pie. Which all serve as a reminder that this time of year is best suited
to those with weeks of holiday, a ready supply of buckets and spades, and the
sum total of zero fucks. In short, December, summer, and Christmas are the
domain of youth – those little shits.
But all this has me thinking about the classic summer vaykay
of the traditional South African childhood. Like Tupperware, moms smacking
indiscriminately at legs when there was dissension in the back seat of the car,
and having to “just wait until your father gets home”, there are key elements
of this holiday that we have all experienced. Whether we grew up in the big
city, or the ‘burbs, we can all remember:
The longest drive in
the world
Parents around old RSA spoke to each other late at night and
decided that the best place to spend quality family time was as far as possible
from where they actually lived. Bundled into the back seat, at the very crack of
dawn, we were hauled long distance with nothing to do but play I-spy, annoy our
siblings, and annoy our fathers by asking “are we there yet”. And to the last
born: only the baby of a family knows the true suffering of sitting in the
middle for four hours – because god help you if you accidentally touched your
brother or sister, or stretched an inch into their side of the car…
The packed lunch
As far as eight-year-old me was concerned, the height of
sophistication was to stop at a Wimpy along the way to our beach destination. A
cheeseburger and Creme Soda would have made all my little dreams come true, but
sadly this was never to be. Our car was always rocking a packed lunch of cheese
sarmies and Oros, so any garage offered only petrol or a chance to wee.
Strangely, having shared this unfulfilled, youthful longing for road trip fast
food with friends, it seems that most were victims of the packed lunch too. Who
the hell, then, were these children scoffing down burgers and chips at Wimpys
across South Africa, while we ate sweaty cheese sandwiches on the side of the
road?
The family fight
You arrive late and are trying to set up the caravan in the
pitch dark. Your parents are bickering at each other and you just got yelled at
for “talking under your breath”. “Why can’t we just be normal?” you wail. Poor
lamb, it’s years before you realize that there is no such thing as a normal
family, and this is as normal as it’s going to get.
The gang
Bucket and spade in hand, boogie board trailing behind you,
you’re ready to hit the beach and make summer your bitch. But first you need to
gather your crew. Those strange kids, two camps down, are now your best friends
and for the next two weeks you’re inseparable. This was before phones and
Facebook so you never saw them again. But for that brief time they were your
motherfucking blood.
