Travel Tales
Flame-licked lashes
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long with the many technological advancements of the 20th century, electric ovens are a noteworthy revelation. I grew up with induction stovetops, which undoubtedly gives away my age, but alas, only in recent years did we bring gas cooking back into our household. It’s nostalgic – the high-pitched squealing of a kettle boiling over a gas hob. I’m convinced it’s the only way to perfectly sear a salmon steak. But the nostalgia of gas yields when it comes to the oven… Honey, it’s got to be electric! For a mid-university holiday getaway I invited my dear friend along to this insane spot on the Remhoogte Pass. My family and our close friends spent the Fathers’ Day weekend there merely a month prior, where I inattentively watched as someone braver than me pursued firing up the gas oven. Knowing what the cooking facilities would entail, Lenana and I planned our menu to be stove-top-specific. This one didn’t have the snazzy automated flint, so a box of matchsticks took its rightful place next to the spoon rest. I realised soon enough that the tick tick tick our stove at home emits is not as nostalgic as I make it out to be. This bad boy did not make a sound. Not even so much as a whoosh, leaving it to your other senses to tell when you might imminently die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
in the oven also need flames coming out, duh! I pulled my hair into a ponytail cause that’s the universal signal for “things are about to get serious here”. What followed was pure stupidity. I lit another match and drew it close to the thingamajigs, my mother’s voice echoing through the back of my mind saying “don’t mess with gas”. Her voice was drowned out by that anticipated whoosh sound, only this time it was accompanied by spontaneous combustion and a flame about as big as those at Burning Man. Lenana scurried over to my side, checking if I was all right. Besides being absolutely flabberGASted, I escaped the infinite possibilities of being burnt to a crisp. Thank goodness I made that ponytail, otherwise I would have been running to the splash pool – channelling Hades in Disney’s adaptation of Hercules – to douse the flames on my head.
I lit another match and drew it close to the thingamajigs, my mother’s voice echoing through the back of my mind saying “don’t mess with gas”.
Between sitting on the stoep, overlooking the mountains, reading Paulo Coelho and taking naps, we cooked. I whipped up a carbonara with local Kalahari truffles and bacon. Lenana’s contribution was hard-shell tacos. I know what you’re thinking: what kind of people prepare these dishes while “roughing it”? The answer is: us, all of us hopeless foodies. Our menu was flawless, until Lenana skittishly asked if we could heat and crisp up the taco shells in the oven. I was feeling brave. Most definitely gin-induced bravery but bravery nonetheless. So I friggin’ did it. I put a match to the thingamajig that flickers a flame indicating gas circulation and called it a day, leaving Lenana to her Mexican mince preparation. A while later she called me back to the kitchen, noting that the oven wasn’t remotely hot. So I reassessed the situation and gathered that all the other little thingamajigs
Since the whole ordeal ended with the thingamajigs being lit, we went ahead and crisped up the taco shells while I took a much-needed bathroom break. I didn’t poop my pants but I was damn near close! While washing the anxiety-induced sweat from my hands, I finally looked at myself in the weathered mirror. Like that scene where the main character reflects on the monumental event that took place and either has a revelation or an existential crisis. What I experienced was somewhere in between.
My eyelashes – or rather what was left of them – were shrivelled up like scared shongololos. My eyebrows barely made it. And right at the start of my hairline, the baby hairs that escaped my ponytail were whoosh, gone. Jokes aside, this could have ended in catastrophe. The beauty of mishaps – when you live to tell the tale – is that they make for great stories down the line. But seriously… don’t try this at home, folks! Do you have any funny travel stories to share? Send them to fly@venture.com.na Charene Labuschagne
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