The panzer doesn't travel, it invades. We move across the country in a series of surprise attacks punctuated by occasional smoke-breaks, less frequent foraging parties and exceedingly rare stops for fuel - the panzer being not only brutal, but brutally efficient (have I ever told you I get 5l/100km? This is one of my favorite topics of conversation). A quick glance back while we're on the move shows all the land behind us in full retreat; this is a rout, an unstoppable blitzkrieg. Unstoppable until, that is, we strike that most cowardly of enemy defenses between the fictional towns of Kakspruit and Kakfontein, a pothole hollowed out by transport companies, corruption and ineptitude.
Pulling over at the scenic Uitkak to survey the damage, we are confronted, dear fictional reader, by a bulging side-wall. We are held up in our advance, just the opportunity the enemy forces require in order to pounce and see us off. The surrounding hills are menacing now as they ready for their next attack. Just then the bushes begin to rustle, and then they begin to emerge.We are approached by an odd assortment of pale people, claiming residence in the beautiful town of Kakspruit. They are all called Venter, and judging by their responses to our probing questions (and their lopsided malformed limbs and faces), they are all cousins. There is a station in Kakfontein, they tell us, the town spread out and blinking in the valley below. At this station we might, we are told, repair the damages to the panzer and also meet a great man who dwells there. He is some sort of trader or businessman, the agent of a great and powerful Company involved in Platinum, tenders, and extermination. "Fuck that," I say, "he sounds like a total douche."
We clamber back aboard and resolve to limp to our extraction point - from whence our invasion of Mozambique will commence in the next few days. As we pull out - slowly, carefully, trying to avoid the remaining defenses in our path - we are beset on all sides by a peculiar rising sound, a chant or cry of some kind: "Sweeeeeeeetssssss! SWEEEEEEETTTSSSSS!" We begin to make out the edges of dark human forms in the vast dark knowable (we have GPS and quite good map books) wilderness around us. In their midst is a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman. She walks in measured steps, draped in striped ANC emblazoned cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. It is the ex-MEC for Transport, Mapula Mokaba-Phukwana. The potholes are clearly her handiwork. As we get up to speed she and her retinue begin to fall back - slowly at first, but soon enough they are in full retreat.
I glance down at Kakfontein one last time and feel certain that for at least one day a year - perhaps one in ten years - this view must be very beautiful. I can see why they chose this spot to waylay us - this was a desperate gamble intended to make us stay, perhaps to dilute the Venter stock a little or perhaps just to document their inspiring lives. We pass the location near the bottom of the pass, populated by those people marked out by dark complexions, worldliness, genetic diversity and properly formed limbs for a life of labour and repression in the great man's mines. We are moving so fast now that we can just barely make out and occasional "sweeeeets!" to our left or right. The enemy's centre crumbles, folds and falls back. The line cannot hold. We race on to victory.
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