The approach to the top of the East Cape is a wild one. The few stores and gas stations I encounter have signs that say ‘Open Sometimes,’ I seem to catch them during the other times. Road signs warn of untamed critters you may encounter, wild horses, feral pigs, and the ever-present cautions for those wily sheep. I scare up a few resplendent pheasant as my car whips by, and, well, to be honest, I wish I had a gun handy.
The road clings to a cliff and the cliff fends off the South Pacific Ocean. The tangled trunks of pohutukawa trees defy gravity as they hang out over the sea, their deep red flowers just beginning to bloom. In another two weeks this drive would border on the spectacular.
At least an hour passes and I have seen no signs of life – the human variety. Just me, the hum of rubber on the road, and the occasional rousing sing-a-long to a George & Ira Gershwin tune (you say tomato, I say tamale…), it’s the only tape I have in the car.
As I come around a bend in the highway everything changes in an instant. There’s a man standing right in the middle of the road, facing me with arm extended; Smokey Bear hat, tidy red uniform with shiny brass buttons, and black breeches. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a Canadian Mountie. In fact, exactly like a Canadian Mountie.
Could this be a ruse to stop unsuspecting motorists while a band of brigands lies in wait behind a knoll? The Gershwin song prattles on, but I stop at ‘potato’. Internal warning flares are sent up. Maybe he’s lost…or mad. I couldn’t decide whether to blaze it around this buffoon and pepper him with road gravel, or stop. He’s looming larger by the moment.
A second before the point of no return I leap on the brakes and come to a worrying stop a few feet from him. He doesn’t flinch. He slowly lowers his hand and approaches my car. I fumble with the electric window.
“Sorry sir, but there’s a funeral procession coming down the road,” he says. I look at him blankly. I think he detects my need for further explanation. “I can’t let you go any further, because of the funeral procession.”
I locate my voice. “Can’t I just sneak past ‘em on the road.”
“No, I can’t let you do that.”
“What do I do?”
He shrugs.
“How far back are they?”
“A few kilometers I think.”
“Are they on foot?”
“Yes.”
“Are you from Canada?”
He either fails to hear or chooses to ignore my last question.
I perform a quick mental calculation to determine how long a funeral procession on foot could cover three kilometers. Funeral processions, as a general rule, aren’t given to a speedy gait. If it’s like the ones I’ve seen in New Orleans where they step, pause, step, pause, then I’ve got time to learn Japanese and decipher the owner’s manual of my Honda Concerto import.
“But what am I supposed to do?” exasperation sneaking into my voice.
For the second time he shrugs, then looks past me down the road as if preparing for Hell’s Angels to come barreling down the highway with shotguns and Molotov cocktails. I idle there for a moment, not sure if I should engage the Mountie in conversation about the weather, he doesn’t look the talkative sort. I seem to recall a dairy I passed about fifteen minutes back, and decide that any diversion is better then sitting here idling on the road getting unnerved with Mountie-boy.
I hate to back track, it violates all the ideals of a road trip. The ground I retrace feels tainted, used. As I scan the roadside for the dairy, doubt, an old ally, creeps in. Was it fifteen or thirty minutes back…or was that yesterday?
I find it after about twenty; I’m the lone car in the lot. I get some refreshments, a newspaper, and enquire after the funeral. A middle-aged woman behind the counter informs me the funeral is for a World War II veteran of some repute. That explains the pomp.
A man wearing gum boots and a lot of dirt walks into the store and overhears our conversation.
“There’s a way around mate,” he says to me as I’m walking out the door. “I’m going that way if you want to follow me.”
“Yea? That’d be great.”
He wastes no time. As I neatly pack my provisions, he’s away in a cloud of dust. I leap into my car in a Dukes of Hazard fashion and punch it after him. His car bellows black soot, and is held together by a patchwork of bondo and rust.
A short way down the road, he veers off onto a two-track dirt road, I trail after his wash of dust. He negotiates the tangle of back roads with a practiced hand. Great puddles of water are displaced in the road like a water skier on a slalom course; I straddle them and ease the Concerto across. He’s getting further and further ahead as I concentrate on keeping my car tidy. I get to an intersection. Panic sets in. He’s gone. The dust trail swallowed by the dense bush.
Three roads, like three doors on the Price is Right, stood before me. Do I choose the one less traveled by? Flip a coin? 33.3% chance of salvation and a 66.6% chance of adding my name to the long list of those who succumbed to the wiles of the Cape. I think back to Cub Scouts, could I employ the same tracking skills I used for rabbits to follow a ’78 Impala? What would Smokey Bear do?
I go left. I’m not sure why, I just think Smokey would go left in this situation. I no longer ease the Concerto across the puddles; I harness all one hundred and ten of her horses and direct them straight down the rutted trail. Mud and water fly. The muffler glances off rocks. A can of soda between my legs ends up…well...between my legs.
The bush gives way, in the distance I spot the familiar black cloud reminiscent of a car that’s drinking oil at the rate of a quart a day. The Impala is pulled over to the side of the road ahead. Thank you Smokey, I mutter to myself.
The gruff local leans out the window as I pull along side. “Straight as she goes mate,” he points on down the road.
“Cheers for that,” I offer. I’m so grateful I have to leave in a rush so he doesn’t see the upwelling of tears.
I find the main road and my tires are grateful. A road I thought a bit crotchety before, now feels to be made of silk.
Copyright 2000 Douglas S. Sassaman
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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