Chapter 1: (2024)

A woman in her mid-twenties driving south along the N1, between Beaufort West and Laingsburg in the Karoo, South Africa.

It just wasn’t my day. First, a flat tire left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. One moment, I was cruising along the endless ribbon of the N1, and the next, there was a strange thumping noise from the back of the car. Then came the unmistakable pull to one side. Thank God I wasn’t driving fast; otherwise, things could have ended much worse.

I eased the car onto the shoulder, a faint hope bubbling that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. But as I stepped out, the biting wind whipped around me, carrying with it a steady drizzle. There it was: the left rear tire, utterly shredded, with jagged ribbons of rubber peeling away from the side wall. Great. Just great.

Rain dripped down my face, mingling with the sweat of frustration as I assessed my situation. My shoes squelched in the muddy shoulder as I popped open the trunk. The thought of unpacking everything to get to the spare felt like the universe mocking me. What now? Call for help? Oh, right — the signal was spotty here even on a good day, and I’d left my charger at home.

As I wrestled with the jack, headlights pierced through the rain behind me, startling me. Relief flooded my chest as a group of three men stepped out of their bakkie, their faces friendly and full of concern.

“You okay there, miss?” the one in the lead asked. He was tall and lanky, his smile a little too quick to form.

“Yes, just a flat tire,” I said, masking my apprehension with a weak laugh.

“We’ll get you sorted in no time,” another man assured, already reaching for my tools.

True to their word, they worked efficiently, chatting lightly about the weather and how I’d better be careful with the rain. A sense of gratitude warmed me despite the chill. Strangers willing to stop and help—it restored a little faith in humanity.

Within minutes, they had the spare on. “You’ll need to replace that tire at the next town,” one said, brushing his hands off.

“Thank you so much!” I said, smiling.

“Glad we could help,” the lanky one replied, tipping his cap before they climbed back into their bakkie and disappeared down the road.

It wasn’t until I got back in the car, drenched and exhausted, that I realized the sickening truth. My handbag — my wallet, my phone — all were gone. A single glance at the now-empty passenger seat was enough to confirm it. My chest tightened as anger surged through me.

“Dammit!” The word echoed hollowly in the confined space.

I felt stupid. Gullible. How could I not have noticed? But I swallowed my rage. Panicking wouldn’t fix this.

With trembling hands, I checked the glove compartment, half-expecting more devastation. Miraculously, my ID and driver’s license were still there. I clutched them like a lifeline, whispering, “At least I still have this.”

The rain picked up as I sat there, staring at the foggy windshield, the patter of droplets drowning out the sounds of the world. My hands shook, and my throat tightened as tears stung my eyes. It wasn’t just the theft — it was the sheer helplessness of it all.

I was miles from anywhere, my phone gone, my money gone. But I was alive. I still had my identity. That had to count for something, right?

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I started the engine, the wipers groaning against the rain-soaked glass. Laingsburg wasn’t too far. I could make it there.

The big, big world felt like it was closing in, but I’d lost before and survived. I’ll survive this too.

Fiona Reid will overcome the setback ... and bounce back. I just have to!

Laingsburg, later that afternoon. Roy Reasor at the Shell Ultra City.

The brewing storm cast an oppressive shroud over the Greater Karoo, turning the N1 National Road into a dim corridor of glistening black. Thick, dark grey clouds rolled overhead, swallowing the last vestiges of daylight and plunging the landscape into an early twilight. The rain, which had been falling steadily since morning, now cascaded with renewed vigor, its relentless rhythm drumming on the SUV’s roof.

As I drove, the hum of the tires on the slick tar road was a constant undertone, a low, steady vibration that merged with the storm’s symphony. The asphalt glistened under the headlights, painted with streaks of silver from the rain’s incessant flow. Water pooled in shallow depressions on the road, creating splashes and ripples as the tires sliced through them. Each puddle sent a fine mist spraying outward, illuminated briefly before fading into the gloom.

The wind buffeted the vehicle in sporadic gusts, tugging at its sides and demanding careful steering to maintain a straight path. Even with the windshield wipers working at full tilt, visibility was a challenge. The rain formed a shimmering curtain that obscured the road ahead. The distant lights of Laingsburg finally emerged through the watery haze, their warm glow a welcome sight against the storm’s encroaching darkness.

Pulling into the Ultra City Shell Service Station, the SUV rolled to a stop under the bright canopy. The hum of the tires ceased, replaced by the muted roar of rain striking the corrugated roof above. The storm seemed even louder here, its presence amplified by the relative quiet of the small service station. Water streamed in rivulets along the concrete forecourt, gathering into shallow puddles that reflected the bright neon signs overhead.

After filling up the SUV’s tank, I decided to head inside the station’s convenience store for something to eat and drink. With the rain showing no sign of abating and the Laings Lodge likely unprepared for late-night guests, it seemed prudent to grab a few snacks to tide me over. Stepping out into the storm’s embrace, I pulled my jacket tighter against the chill and made my way across the forecourt.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the warm interior of the service station. The air was tinged with the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods, a stark contrast to the storm’s damp and cold. Shelves lined with snacks and necessities flanked the room, and a small counter at the back promised hot meals for those braving the weather.

The café, or rather, family restaurant and the rest of the forecourt were eerily quiet, the oppressive storm keeping everyone tucked away indoors. Not a soul dared brave the torrential rain, and I couldn’t blame them. Outside, the storm raged on, the downpour cascading in relentless sheets that lashed against the station’s canopy and formed streams of water rushing across the concrete forecourt. The rhythmic hammering of the rain, coupled with the occasional howl of the wind, created a soundscape both hypnotic and unsettling.

It struck me how rare this sight was — the Karoo, a land of dry, dusty plains and endless horizons, now transformed into a sodden, storm-lashed expanse. I’d seen this semi-arid region endure extremes before: shimmering heatwaves that danced on the horizon and, on one memorable occasion, the town of Beaufort West blanketed in sparkling white snow that stretched from mountaintops to the streets below. But this — this was different. The Karoo wasn’t supposed to drown in rain like this.

With its average of five or six days of rain during the peak months of March and April, this storm was exceptional, almost unnatural. It was as if nature herself was testing the resilience of this rugged land. The thought unsettled me, yet I couldn’t deny the beauty of it — how the rain breathed a fleeting life into a region that knew thirst all too well.

Inside the café, I found a spot near the window where I could keep an eye on the storm while waiting for my order. The air was warm and smelled of fresh coffee and fried food, the comforting aroma wrapping around me like a soft blanket. The neon menu boards cast a pale glow over the empty dining area, their hum blending with the steady patter of rain against the glass.

As I glanced around, my eyes caught an advertisement for the Steers restaurant attached to the Ultra City. The bold text read:

“Visit your local Steers at Ultra City Voortrekker Road in Laingsburg to grab your flame-grilled, 100% pure beef burgers, flame-grilled Chicken, Ribs, Hand-cut chips, or ridiculously thick shakes!”

The words seemed almost comically out of place in the current setting. Burgers, ribs, and hand-cut chips were enticing enough after a long day of driving, but the thought of chicken made me grimace. No, I don’t eat anything that flies. It’s a personal quirk, one I’ve held onto stubbornly over the years. Besides, a milkshake on a cold, stormy night like this? That was madness. Coffee was the obvious choice — hot, strong, and comforting.

The faint murmer of the coffee machine behind the counter filled the air, a soothing sound that contrasted with the storm’s violence outside. I wrapped my hands around the ceramic mug when my coffee arrived, letting its warmth seep into my chilled fingers. The steam curled upward in delicate tendrils, carrying the rich, earthy scent that I desperately needed to ground myself.

I sipped slowly, savouring the moment of stillness amidst the chaos. The windows rattled faintly as the wind picked up, and I could see water pooling in the low spots of the forecourt, illuminated by the harsh white light of the overhead lamps. This small café felt like a fragile sanctuary, a place where time momentarily stood still while the storm raged on.

For now, it was just me, the storm, and the comforting warmth of coffee. Little did I know, the quiet solitude of the moment would soon be interrupted, setting into motion a series of events that would change everything.

A well-known travel magazine caught my eye on the news-stand near the door. With a casual wave, I called the waitress over. She was a friendly young woman, her smile as warm as the coffee she poured with practised ease. I gestured toward the magazine and asked if she could add it to my tab.

“Of course,” she replied with a cheerful nod, expertly balancing a tray of empty glasses. She fetched the magazine and placed it gently on the table beside me, her efficiency making me wonder if this was her regular charm or the result of years spent navigating Steers’ busy lunchtime rush.

With my coffee still steaming and the “hand-cut” fries — golden and crispy on the outside, soft and pillowy within — being gently prodded by my fork, I turned my attention to the magazine. Its glossy cover promised adventure, relaxation, and discovery, all wrapped in stunning visuals that teased the wanderlust of any reader.

Paging through, I stopped abruptly, a familiar layout catching my eye.

“Seven Things to Do in Mpumalanga,” the headline proclaimed in bold, enticing letters. And just below it, the byline that brought a grin to my face: By Roy Reasor.

I am Roy Reasor — journalist, photographer, blogger, and, when time allows, author of two adventure novels that I still hope will become Netflix series someday. Seeing my name in print never gets old. There’s a thrill in recognizing your work in the wild, like running into an old friend in an unexpected place.

Thirty-four years young, with brown hair and eyes to match, I’m not particularly tall or notably short — just somewhere in the middle, a good spot for blending into crowds while chasing stories. Right now, though, I was far from blending in. If the weather held up, I was on my way to the Cape West Coast of South Africa.

For those unfamiliar, the Cape West Coast is a ribbon of rugged beauty that stretches from the cosmopolitan allure of Cape Town to the secluded, wind-swept charm of Alexander Bay, near the Namibian border. The route along the N7 highway is a traveller’s dream — a mix of sleepy fishing villages, wide-open beaches, and endless horizons that shimmer under the African sun.

This isn’t just a place; it’s a mood, a feeling, a slow unravelling of time itself. Towns like Langebaan and Paternoster boast pristine beaches and the freshest seafood, while the Cederberg mountains offer trails for hikers and ancient rock art for history buffs. Farther north, the landscape transforms into the surreal, semidesert terrain of Namaqualand, famous for its wildflower displays that blanket the earth in a kaleidoscope of colour each spring.

It’s a place where stories practically write themselves. Yet here I was, sitting in Steers, restaurant, paging through an article I’d written months ago, savouring fries that, for some reason, tasted better today than I remembered.

As I glanced up from the magazine, the waitress came by with a casual check-in. “Anything else for you?”

“Just inspiration,” I replied with a wink.

She laughed, not entirely sure what I meant, and left me to my thoughts. My coffee was cooling, my plate nearly empty, but my imagination was alight. The West Coast was calling, and I was more than ready to answer.

The sliding doors opened with a soft hiss, and a woman stepped in, looking like she had just taken a swim in her clothes. Water dripped steadily from her sodden jacket, forming little puddles with every step. Her hair, dark and plastered to her face, clung stubbornly to her cheeks. A bedraggled ponytail hung limply down her back, dripping in rhythm with her shoes, which squelched faintly on the linoleum floor.

She walked to the counter, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. The waitress behind the counter offered a bright, professional smile that didn’t quite mask her curiosity.

“Good afternoon! Can I get you anything?”

The woman hesitated, glancing at the menu board above, then sighed. “Just a glass of water, please.” Her voice was low and tired, like she’d been carrying the weight of the storm outside on her shoulders.

As she turned toward a corner table, her gaze briefly flicked to my plate. Her eyes landed on my half-eaten rib-eye steak and chips, and for a split second, a look of raw hunger crossed her face. She averted her eyes quickly, as if embarrassed, and sat down.

I couldn’t help but watch her as she sat, staring blankly out of the window streaked with rain. When the waitress brought her water, the woman straightened and asked, “What time do the banks open tomorrow? Is there an FNB branch here in town?”

The waitress nodded. “Yes, there’s a branch just two blocks down. They open at eight in the morning.”

“Thanks,” the woman murmured. She looked at the glass of water like it wasn’t even close to what she wanted but was the best she could manage.

“Ordering a glass of water while there’s a monsoon outside?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. I didn’t mean to pry, but something about her told me there was more to this story.