Shorelines Read Online Free Page A

drive around with Mercedes-Benz cars,” said one of their spokesmen, Floors Strauss. “We will not give cash handouts. We’re going to use the compensation to make sure that we will provide jobs, educate our youngsters and develop a sustainable Richtersveld.”
    And by God, didn’t the Richtersvelders need a diamond dollar or two? That was the gist of our thoughts as we rattled into Khubus, a dusty mission settlement in the east. A car wreck lay upside down at the entrance to the village. At the Tourist Information Centre, no one had time to guide us. We were briefly told that half the people in Khubus had no jobs and that the church was a nice place to visit. But Tommy Thomas back in Alexander Bay had given us the name of one Willem Slander, so we made enquiries and ended up knocking on the door of his house.
    We heard muffled voices and clicking and muttering on the other side of the door, as if dozens of safety locks were grudgingly being opened. A small, wizened man in a Toyota cap peered around the corner. He emerged from the dwelling, closing the door firmly behind him as if there were a secret life inside, a no-go zone for us strangers.
    “It looks peaceful out here,” remarked Julie, trying to kick-start a conversation.
    “Not so peaceful,” the old man said. “If the wind wasn’t blowing so bad, you’d see the kids up there on the hill, lighting up.”
    “Lighting up what?”
    “Dagga, Mandrax, even this new Tik thing.”
    I shuddered. For the dreaded crystal methamphetamine (street name: Tik) to have made its way so far north was a shock. It has a 94% addiction rate, induces psychotic behaviour and is often used by gangster gunmen just before a hit.
    “It has also been called ‘Hitler’s Drug’ because it was allegedly used by the Nazis as a combat pill to fuel aggression and help soldiers stay awake and remain focused for long periods,” say researchers at the SA Institute for Security Studies. The Tik Generation? Up here, in lonely Khubus?
    As we scuttled out of town, a youth wearing a baseball cap bearing a stitched-in marijuana-leaf emblem stepped into the road and stopped us with an imperious air. Were we going to Sanddrif? No, we were heading south to Lekkersing. Where were we from? What were we doing here? The slurred questions came thick and fast. Who was he, we countered. And what was that on his cap?
    He smiled and said something vaguely Richtersveld-Rastafarian:
    “ Die Aja Baas .” The Big Holy Boss. He had a dead look in his eyes. You just knew. No amount of diamond paybacks would ever bring a sparkle back to them again …

Chapter 3: Khubus to Port Nolloth

Port Jolly
    I have lived with this image of the Richtersveld for decades. It is the portrait of an aged woman, perhaps old before her time. The face is plump and folded, the smile is gaptooth-marvellous, the eyes are squinty yet glinting with humour. The whole delicious array of facial features is framed by a faded pink bonnet, standard headgear for the Dames of the Dry Land.
    The fantasy continues as she invites me into her yard. She lets me photograph her in the late afternoon and the soft light plays lovingly on her wrinkles. We drink strong bush tea in tin cups and laugh together. Small gifts are exchanged, in the spirit of the encounter.
    Like a zealous television-licence inspector, I had scanned the streets of Khubus in the northern Richtersveld for any sign of womenfolk wearing traditional bonnets. But it must have been the Bonnet Brigade’s day off, because the lanes were bare and the doors were closed and even the kids who were said to hang out on the hill behind the car cemetery and smoke stuff were nowhere to be seen. So we took the dusty road south to Lekkersing in the search for a bonnet. We only found out later that you had to book well in advance for the people of the Richtersveld to dig inside their family wagon chests and dress up like their ancestors for you. They don’t sit around the old matjeshuis smoking