imaginari

It started with a meeting in the staffroom. The plan was hatched, the route roughly sketched, and the car, a Toyota Corolla 1600 in gunmetal grey, was ready and reliable. These were the days before Google Maps, when finding your way relied entirely on your wits, your sense of adventure, and a fearlessness reserved exclusively for the young and foolish. Four women. One borrowed car. No itinerary. Just the open road, sundresses packed alongside tampons, and a trunk full of snacks, secrets, and the kind of energy that made onlookers at petrol stations stare, half in admiration, half in alarm at the wild souls spilling out of car doors left wide open at the petrol pump. The road was wild and winding. And they were wilder still. They sang louder than Rick Astley, took the curves of the Western Cape coastline like Formula 1 drivers, and laughed so hard someone might have peed a little near Hermanus. There were camping nights in Wilderness, swims under starlight in Sedgefield, and a suspiciou...