We were somewhere between Nieu-Bethesda and Baviaanskloof when Ian Roberts made us get out of the car and listen to the sound of the V8 engine. The sun was about to set and Roberts used the last light to take centre stage.
It was another award-winning performance: “Can you hear that…,” he whispered. “Deep in the engine, it is the sound of the universe. You can hear a black hole singing in the key of B-Flat.” In the middle of the Great Karoo, we huddled around the red ’66 Chev Impala and listened to the Milky Way hum as the moon rose.
We believed him about the B-Flat under the bonnet as Roberts is not only a top actor, but also a musician and a lover of old cars, but mostly because we wanted to. The car, to us, was a team member, a home and a symbol of new horisons and breathtaking vistas.
Her name was Chilli Pepper. She was a pillarless and fearless. Also radioless and airconless. As part of a television show called “Going Nowhere Slowly,” we travelled Africa in her and cars like her. Once, we drove a white ’67 Ford Galaxy to Tanzania, climbed Kilimanjaro and immediately drove back to Cape Town via Swakopmund.
But the Chilli Pepper was unique. She was a source of comfort and safety. I slept in her roomy boot more than once, waking to the stars in the middle of the night when the mosquitoes got the upper hand. She was sturdy and strong, and you could use her as a jungle gym without being a sissy about it. Once, on the endless plains of Verneukpan, we put a brick on the accelerator. While the car was driving, I climbed on top of the roof and did somersaults. I often sat outside the passenger window frame with my body, inhaling the fresh air and insects on those long stretches through Malawi and Mozambique. Same car, same people, same road, but a separate memory. It was a different era, though. And it is important that it was different.
Cars have a powerful place in nostalgia, much more than just ‘living in the past.’ It is an active engagement with a recollection which can make one more attuned to your present. Even before the invention of motor vehicles, human experience has been described as a ‘journey,’ whether it was Orpheus travelling to the underworld or Armstrong to the moon. Life is an archetypal road we all have to cover. As mass transportation became more accessible and most of us started owning cars, the type of car and the journey became synonymous. The car of your youth or first car becomes a manifestation of yourself and your place in the world. Your choice of a car says something about you.
The Chilli Pepper was decommissioned in lousy condition, but I now have a ’69 Impala in my driveway. Her name is Katy Peri-Peri. She is 5.5m long with a 3m wheelbase. She has a V8 engine in good working condition, blue upholstery, a tank that takes 20 gallons of leaded petrol and a South African flag on the aerial.
She represents a longing for places I have not yet seen and people I have not yet been. Everyone lights up when they see her. I hoot and wave and shout: Vrrrr-pha!”
I take the car for roadtrips. It enhances the travel experience. I once packed my rucksack into Katy’s boot and spent a long weekend in Soweto. She was a hit in Vilakazi Street. Even small children, who had no frame of reference for this type of car, stared mouths ajar. Lungile, the owner of the Backpackers where I was staying, took one look, grinned and fetched his fedora. “Ah, Impala 6-Mabone! This is what life is about – style. This car reminds me of the times of Sophiatown.” (6-Mabone = refers to the distinctive six lights at the back of the Impala).
Lungile’s father was a jazz musician, part of the “Elite Swingsters.” He performed in the era of Dolly Ratebe, Miriam Makeba and high fashion. These fond memories happened in cars like this; Pontiac, Biscayne, Plymouth. Lungile took the driver’s seat, and I got a unique guided tour around Soweto, sipping wine and eating snacks from the comfort of the spacious front seat. Lungile was in his element. Wherever we went, people whooped and cheered. He spotted a few friends on the side of the road. We offered them a lift.
“Hayi, Mfowethu! Vrrr Pha!” says the one. (‘Hi, my brother, Vrrr Pha!’)
“Vrrrr PHA!” Lungile replied, putting extra emphasis on the ‘Pha!’
“Vrrr Pha” is a colloquialism referring to sports cars’ sound when they change gears. It can also be used as an exclamation or accentuation of things you want to brag about or attract attention to, especially cars.
“This is style!” they exclaimed as they piled out of the car. Lungile explained that these cars were the taxis of back then. “We called them 10-seaters. 6 People in the back, the driver and 3 passengers in front.” How times have changed. Old cars remind you of that, good or bad.
Roberts feels that the modern car might have robbed us of a level of adventure and engagement. “Old cars are noisy, rude and unpredictable. The simple act of driving used to be an achievement,” he says. “The demanding dirt road from Maun to Gaborone for instance was an insolent 500km ordeal. Merely arriving was a victory. So what do you ask of drivers today? “How was your gruelling trip on the N1 this morning?”
I’ve never driven the dirt road from Maun. Still, I can attest that when your ’69 model Chev stalls on the N3 at Gilloolly’s during peak hour while it is raining, your wipers going on the blink at that moment while the car starts running back because you forgot to put the handbrake on, and you having to get out of the car to manually connect the starter to the battery with a copper wire while using your T-shirt to wipe the windscreen while driving to get to work is also challenging – while somehow being invaluable.
And when you go over that final hill in Calitzdorp with only the sound of gravel under the tires and the gracious drone of the universe under your bonnet, you will find a moment of stillness and gratitude.
And each time I start that car and that V8 engine kicks in, I smile and say: “Vrrrr-pha!”
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR
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Image by Noel Bauza from Pixabay