The Pretoria Expedition of 1952

The Long Road North

The stars were still pinned to that thick, black velvet sky over Worcester when my dad, Solly, lifted me into the back seat of our Ford Anglia. It was five o’clock in the morning—a time when the world usually belonged only to the owls and the milkmen—but today, it belonged to us. I was only six years old, and in my mind, we weren't just going on a holiday; we were embarking on a real expedition to the very edge of the world. Pretoria felt as distant and exotic as the moon, a place of high office and military mystery where my Aunty Margie and Uncle Neil lived.

My younger brother, David, was barely a year old, wrapped in a blanket sleeping beside me in the dark. He had no idea we were about to cross a whole continent, but I felt the weight of the adventure right in the pit of my stomach.

Our Mechanical Packhorse

Our little Anglia looked like a mechanical packhorse. Days before we left, I had watched my father tighten the metal roof rack onto the car’s crown, heaving a massive, striped canvas bundle of luggage into place. Looking back at the photos, that bundle doubled the height of the car! It looked top-heavy and very ambitious for a four-cylinder engine.

Inside, the car had that "road trip" smell—warm vinyl, pure excitement, and the sharp, metallic tang of the spare petrol can my dad kept for emergencies. My mother, Frances, had packed the wicker hamper with the padkos: sandwiches wrapped tight in wax paper and bottles of juice that I knew would turn lukewarm the moment the sun hit the Karoo. As the engine turned over with its rhythmic chug-chug, the headlights cut a yellow swath through the morning mist, and we began the long, winding climb of the Hex River Pass.

The Magic of the Karoo

As the sun began to bleed over the horizon, the world outside my window shifted from charcoal to a dusty, ochre red. We had entered the Karoo. In 1952, the road was just a ribbon of black asphalt that felt precariously thin against the immensity of the scrubland. I spent hours with my forehead pressed against the glass, watching the landscape change.

What I remember most were the endless thorn trees. They looked like spindly, grey skeletons reaching out of the dry earth, their long white needles shimmering in the morning light. They seemed to go on forever, standing guard over the dusty plains. Beside the road, the telephone poles were the only straight things to see, and they were decorated with the most amazing sights—huge, shaggy nests that looked like giant haystacks balanced on the cross-arms. My dad told me they were bird cities, but to me, they looked like heavy, golden hats that might tip the poles over at any moment.

A Test of Patience and Dust

To a child, the Karoo is a test of patience, a shimmering landscape of heat where the horizon never seems to get any closer. I watched the occasional silhouette of a windpomp, its blades spinning lazily in the dry breeze. My father was a focused driver, his hands steady on the wheel as he scanned the road for those corrugated gravel sections that could rattle your teeth loose. We were traveling at about forty miles per hour, which felt like flying to me, though the landscape was so big it felt like we were standing still.

By mid-afternoon, the heat was a physical weight. We had no radio to drown out the drone of the tires, just the quiet murmur of my parents talking in the front. We passed through Touws River and Laingsburg—names that felt like milestones on a map of the infinite. When we reached Beaufort West, the sun was still high, and Solly decided we should push on.

The Frontier at Colesberg

Finally, just as the last of the light died away, a distinctive flat-topped hill called Coleskop appeared against the indigo sky. We had driven nearly 420 miles since breakfast! We arrived in Colesberg in the pitch dark, the streetlamps reflecting off the white-walled facades of the houses. It felt like a proper frontier town.

We pulled up at the Central Hotel on Church Street, a grand, thick-walled building that smelled of floor wax and roasting Karoo lamb. The floorboards creaked under my tired feet as we were shown to our room. I remember the profound relief of those cool white sheets and the silence of the desert pressing right up against the windows. It had been a thirteen-hour day on the road—a feat of legendary proportions for our small car and my even smaller brother.

The Final Push to the Capital

The second day began before the town had even stirred. We were back in the Anglia, watching the silhouettes of the Karoo fade as we crossed the big Orange River and entered the flat, expansive plains of the Orange Free State. The road here felt faster, the landscape more rolling as we passed through Bloemfontein and Kroonstad.

As we approached the end of our 860-mile journey, the skyline of Pretoria finally appeared. It was dominated by the brooding presence of the Union Buildings and the lush green of the jacaranda trees. Even though the purple blossoms weren't out yet, the city had an air of established elegance.

When we finally pulled up at Uncle Neil and Auntie Margie’s place in Roberts Heights, my cousin Marché was there to meet us. The long, cramped hours in the back seat were forgotten in an instant. The house was a marvel of wide verandas and polished floors. But the most amazing sight was Uncle Neil. He was a magistrate, but he was dressed in a crisp military uniform with a thick leather Sam Browne belt. He looked like a hero from a storybook. We had survived the Karoo, conquered the miles, and arrived at the heart of the country. I was a six-year-old explorer, and my adventure was only just beginning.

Pretoria was just huge. Everything was so much bigger and greener than back home in Worcester. After sitting in that Ford Anglia for 860 miles, getting to Aunt Margie and Uncle Neil’s house felt like we had finally finished a very long trip.

Their house in Roberts Heights was a great place. The outside walls were corrugated iron.I had not seen that before. I remember the stoep was very wide and the floors were so shiny you could almost slide on them in your socks. I stood on the porch looking at all the thick green leaves and vines. It didn't look like the Cape at all. My cousin Marché came out to say hello, and I forgot about being hot and tired in the back seat. We were finally in the big city.

Uncle Neil was an  important man. He was a magistrate, but he didn't look like a judge. He wore a crisp, khaki uniform that was ironed very flat. I liked his Sam Browne belt—the thick, brown leather strap that went right across his chest. He looked like a real soldier.

While the grown-ups sat on the stoep drinking tea, they talked about the war and the "Big Blast" that happened at the Heights in 1945. My dad, Solly, told stories too. He wasn't there when the explosion happened, but he had been in the hospital right there at Roberts Heights in 1943. He was sent there to get better after being badly wounded in Egypt and spending a year in the Cairo General Hospital. Hearing them talk about the war and the big ammunition blast made me feel like I was standing in a very special place.

Then we went to a big shop in the middle of Pretoria. It was a department store. Worcester didn’t have anything like it. It had very high ceilings and everyone talked in quiet voices. That was where I got my best present of the whole trip.

My parents bought me a leather holster belt with two shiny silver cap guns. The leather was real Springbok skin and it felt quite tough and smelled new. When I strapped them on, I felt very grown-up. I remember putting those little red rolls of paper caps into the guns. When I pulled the trigger—bang!—the smoke smelled so good. I walked out of that shop very proudly. I wasn't just a little boy from Worcester anymore; I had my own silver guns just like the cowboys in the films.

We went on a visit  to the National Zoo. I had been to the Zoo in Cape Town but this was something else. It was  big. We entered from Boom street and the first thing we saw was a fountain. It was called the Sammy Marks Fountain and it was regarded as a cast-iron masterpiece that was moved from Church square years earlier.  We saw Mary the Asian elephant—you could also have a ride on her although I never did that.  I saw the lions too, but I wasn't scared because I had my hands on my holsters just in case. When I got tired of walking, my father put me on his shoulders so I could see over everyone’s heads.

Then we went to "Fonteine." It was a great place with a big swimming pool that was very, very blue. This was the site where the city's history began as the springs there provided the original water supply for the settlement in the old days. It was the perfect place for the traditional South African  “braaivleis” or family picnic.  My favorite part was the tiny train. It was a real little steam engine, Number 555, and it made a lot of noise and white smoke. In the photos, you can see me standing by the tracks in my jersey and shorts with my new cap guns on. I stayed close to the tracks to watch the engine puff past. Then we had a ride. What fun.

Uncle Niel took us to the Transvaal Museum. Now, that was a place of absolute awe. It felt like a sanctuary for every wild thing in Africa. But there was one exhibit that I will never, ever forget as long as I live.

Right there in the mammal hall was a diorama that looked so real of a massive male lion, frozen in mid-air, pouncing onto a zebra. You could see the lion’s claws sinking into the zebra’s back, and the zebra looked like it was straining every muscle to escape. Standing there as a young boy, seeing that life-and-death struggle against a painted backdrop of the Transvaal veldt, it stayed with me. It was a carefully composed  exhibit that told the story of the wild right there in the middle of the city. Even today I am told, when people think of that museum, that lion and zebra are the first things they remember.

One night, we all went to the Capitol Theatre to see a movie called Ivanhoe. The bioscope in Worcester was smaller, but this one was like a palace. The carpets were so thick I couldn't hear my own shoes when walking. When the lights went out, I looked up and saw real stars and clouds moving on the ceiling! It was like sitting outside at night, but we were under a roof. I sat there holding my cap guns and watching the knights josting on the big screen.

We also drove out to the Hartbeespoort Dam. To get there, the car had to go through a long, dark hole in the mountain. It was a bit scary but very exciting to be in the dark. When we came out the other side, there was the water. It was a big blue dam with little white sailing  boats that looked like toys floating far away. We sat on the rocks for a family photo—Marché, baby David in his white hat, my  father, and me. I felt very happy to be there with everyone.

In the end, we had to pack the Ford Anglia again. The striped bundle went back on the roof rack, and my guns were put away for the drive, but I kept my leather belt right next to me.

The drive back through the Karoo felt different. I knew all about the windpomps and the big bird nests on the poles now. I was going back to the Cape, but I felt older. I had been to the capital city.  When we drove down the Hex River Pass and saw the green valley of home, I was already thinking about the stories I would tell my friends at school. The trip was over, but I would never forget it.

3 March 2026

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