Little did we know that this wonderful South African trip in a Mahindra XUV 500 would evoke so many old memories. And it was nostalgia worth relishing
With the travel sheets clenched in my hands, I rang up my father to give him the news. “I’m going to South Africa,” I announced with great excitement. “Great!”, he exclaimed. “Which car?” “Mahindra. Their XUV 500. Remember I told you about their new SUV,” I replied, unaware that I’d sent him over to a dream cloud with the name.
“Ah, Mahindra. We go a long way back. You remember the good old ‘Jeep’ we had?”
How could I ever forget? That henna-green rickety ‘army condemned and given a home by my family’ Mahindra, which then was home-maintained and nourished. It was a model much before the company came up with their ‘Classic’ series of models and since it was the closest we could get to the iconic Jeeps, we decided to name it so. I remember painting the bars and changing a flat tyre jumping on the then enormous jack lever when I was barely 10. I could make my own ‘eights’ in it by 14 (not legally proud of it, but daddy’s tomboy did it back then). It took us from the winding ice smothered Himachal roads to the sands of Bikaner; from the spine-shivering tale-laden darks of Chambal to the rain-soaked evenings in the Dundlod ruins. It was a darling and we mourned the day it left us.
With the past tucked away safely and the future glaring through my goggles, I left to experience what the new-age Mahindra had in store for me. If it could be as dear to me as my old lady.
Upon reaching Cape Town, we were received by a group of hospitable people, who were to be our window to this unseen world for the days to come. Dave and Su (David and Suzanne), the heads of the family, Rob, the jolly clicker, and Gavin, the bloke with magic pills that had the power to keep illness of any sort at bay. And, of course, our companions for the journey: two Mahindra XUV 500s.
Driving out of the Cape Town airport, we could see the South Africa which exists in two worlds: one belonging to the rich and the other to the poor, just like any other country. While the left had rising speed limits for the rich to burn the fuel as they stepped on the pedal, the right had strings with tattered clothing hanging to be dried. As the ‘white’ went in their turbo/supercharged howlers, the ‘black’, though in not as fancy cars, still had the reggae echoing their puny hatches. But, boy, are they friendly! We weren’t given any strange looks, none of our bags/mobile phones/chains were snatched and we didn’t feel as if we were in a ‘third-world country’.
The roads felt as if the maker had put his finger in a bowl full of ceramic and carved his way through those sprawling vineyards, around the hills and cut a fine intersection for an occasional encounter with fellow drivers.
Africa, they say, is the place where the first seed of human species was sown and little was I aware that this land houses some of the finest pieces of automobiles too. After a first-hand encounter with the Franschhoek Motormuseum, I had very little to say and stood ogling at some of the finest poetry on wheels ever written. Standing in the middle of a vineyard, the Motormuseum was the last thing one would expect in a picture-perfect location, with mountains outlining the greens and lazy horses grazing about in the pastures. But, none the less, cars gave us a better high than any wine would.
Peeping through the view-finder, I found out that if a mere look at those cars set our adrenaline rushing, then the sparkle in their paint had some tears hidden too. Rob pointed to one of the cars and told me that it belonged to his father and was also the reason why he wasn’t with them any longer. Respect power and use it well. Rightly said. So after a feast for the eyes and for our gurgling tummies, off we went to see the better of South African land.
The first day was spent around Mount Paarl, with sprawling vineyards touching the horizon and plantations raised in the most perfect straight lines I have ever seen.
That so reminds me, the steering wheel of our ‘Jeep’ was on the heavier side for little me and I could just about manage a grip in the middle of those turbocharged vibrations, drawing long earthworms on the road, forget straight lines!
The road and our XUVs then took us to Du Toitskloof Pass, where we saw the glittering lamps of Franschhoek from the top of the mountain, with the setting sun. Sun retired for the day and left cold winds to keep us awake. The mercury dipped to eight and we tip-toed through Franschhoek, hoping not to disturb those little by-lanes, trendy art galleries, small street side restaurants and big and small bed and breakfast signboards. The town, though with major student population, doesn’t have an active night life to boast of.
It was the new year’s eve and Delhi was at its chilliest. At the stroke of midnight, we wished each other the best for the new year and wrapped ourselves in our blankets. The next morning, as I came down, I saw a bony figure all curled up and lying on the driver’s seat of the Classic. It was the street dog mother we kept bread and milk for. That night we gave someone a warm new year’s eve.
The next morning we realised the bundle of beauty we were living in since last night. The sky, I haven’t seen a blue like that. The trees, green never had a shade so fresh. The flowers, they blossomed like a young girl’s imagination. The sun shone bright as we left for the day’s quest and were more than surprised to see the strong affinity people have for cycling in the hilly sections.
There were many good things to keep me busy, looking and clicking out of the window: rapidly changing landscapes, herds of caravans and excited families out for a weekend trip, interesting signboards, and then came Dassiefontein.
It wasn’t really a motel or a theme-based restaurant, not even a café. But a place full of concentric circles, in which every realm was distinct. Basically a farm stall, the entrance takes you through a small room with a variety of gardening tools, seeds, planters, bird-houses and garden decorations, etc. One step into the adjoining room and you find yourself in the middle of kitchen utensils, storage jars, kettles, trays, all painted in bright hues and making you feel like Tom Thumb in a giant kitchen cabinet. The central area had a tiny counter for food and snacks on one side and was mainly occupied by baskets (of all sizes you can imagine), toys, bowls, cups and saucers – sets and loose, big and small, flashy and sober, everything for everyone. The little alley going out of there had probably the best set of most random pieces of antiques put together under a roof. Spoons and forks, mirrors, wall hooks, chandeliers, letter-boxes, masks, tables and shelves, candle stands – so much of beauty spread all around that my camera felt dizzy. There were two sets of rooms for shoes and clothes and other leather accessories too. That place, in short, was how I see the world. Beauty in everything, a story, some dust of time, some cracks of age.
We have some of the most adventitious memories with the Jeep. It was my father’s dream come true, my brother’s and mine secret gateway to the fantasy world, my mother’s lady companion in her sudden errands, our dog’s definition of freedom – wind in her hair and mouth. It took us to our examination centres, father’s meetings and vacations and fun drives, brother’s parent-teachers’ meetings, even took our dog to its burial. Concentric circles. Happy and sad.
The day continued to unfold and we found ourselves in Hermanus for some whale watching. That was nice too. I can now boast of being there, done that, so far as the most famous tourist attractions there are concerned. Sun bid adieu and we retired for the night to the scenic Cape Town. The city, though in hibernation by the time we arrived, did show us some glimpses of what it had it store. A fine evening at the Waterfront, with tired yachts anchored on the shore, dim lit tables hissing with whispers and giggles, a still giant wheel inviting to come on board and a short drizzle, such nice things to remember the place by.
The next day froze us to the bare bone when we climbed up to the Mountain Top, to see the Cape Town as God made it (with some alterations by mankind, of course). Icy blue waters defining the terrestrial and aquatic boundaries and colourful yachts and ships having a bit of both, symmetrically built skyscrapers and much lively row-houses.
Our definition of being a rebel back in time was standing tall, holding the thick bar of the Jeep and making ‘robot’ sounds as our voice quivered because of the vibrations and mouthful of air. Rebel, because mother always asked us not to do so.
Driving along the coast for the entire evening and experiencing the beauty spread around, the amplitude of which may or may not be matched by anything I experience in the future, the night brought us to this lazy countryside called Simon’s Town.
The lady at the reception, short, with a high-pitched voice and very welcoming, wore a blue sweater with an emblem on a side. It was a dog, a Great Dane. Just at the yacht basin the porch of the hotel was once a very popular spot for the mariners to party. Tipsy sailors very often left their jackets, caps or other belongings there, which the dog obediently picked up and returned. After the docile canine died, they put its statue outside the hotel and got their emblem from it. Sweet!
For the dog and both us kids, exercise sessions were often running behind the Jeep, as dad sang ‘Country road’, which for us was a morale-boosting anthem back then. Panting our lungs out, we would retire and sit on the road within 500 metres, but the dog took the challenge seriously and would run till our eyes could see.
At dinner table that night, discussions with Dave gave us a chance to know the glorious past he has shared with some iconic cars. Looking at how excited we got just at the mere mention of a Dodge or a Range Rover, he surprised us all by taking us to a Toy Museum in the neighbourhood. I wasn’t wrong when I called him Father Santa in my mind!
The Toy Museum, another major attraction of the trip. From war figurines (even Adolf Hitler) to toy trains, dolls, even cars and a few bikes, all of us scattered there like a bunch of kids let loose. In short, a lot of Rands exchanged hands that day, but with no regrets. The owner, Perseus, a sweet old gentleman, has kept the museum alive just to hand the baton to the next generation. To keep the show running, he has even put an entry fee of 5 Rand. And with all our purchases combined, we really made his day!
I bought a Burago scale model of an identical looking Jeep for father on his birthday. He opened the gift pack, saw it, kissed it and whispered, “Welcome back, my lady!”
From there, we went to say a quick hello to a colony of African penguins at Boulders Beach.
The next day went just as one would expect on a vacation. Nice places to see, good food for the palate, souvenirs, photographs, etc. We returned to Cape Town, hoping to enjoy another fine evening and we sure did. Dancing and grooving to the beats of traditional Venda music, we spent the last few hours reminiscing about all the good times and days we had spent in the company of wonderful people, trusted cars and unforgettable landscapes.
If our old Mahindra ‘Jeep’ laid the foundation of the person I am today, the XUV 500 showed me the person I can be. If the Jeep showed me my wings, the XUV in that new land showed me how blessed I was to have them. Every time I took control of the wheel, the past went flashing in front of my eyes, with a promise that the future would be better. Ain’t it, Mahindra!
If our old Mahindra ‘Jeep’ laid the foundation of the person I am today, the XUV 500 showed me the person I can be
Story: Gasha Aeri-Alawani
Photography: Rob Till
