Anyone who’s travelled knows that heading into unfamiliar territory can throw some surprises your way. Choosing to visit Balfour and Val in Mpumalanga, South Africa, felt like stepping into the unknown, hoping for a mix of adventure, quiet moments, and great photos to add to our collection. But the trip didn’t go as planned. We didn’t see anything of importance at all and may as well not have bothered since we almost got beaten up trying to take some street photos in Balfour.
The trip started easily enough – the usual gang of the two of us and doggo – heading down the Durban freeway from Johannesburg. Traffic, for a Saturday mid-morning jaunt, seemed a little heavier than it should have been due to the volume of trucks carting coal to some-or-other port. To get to Balfour, you take the Standerton offramp, and head down a single-lane road past endless fields of nothing. The only thing of interest was a ramshackle, graffiti-covered, house opposite a dilapidated truck stop. We stopped to capture images of this abandoned structure and collected blackjacks for our trouble.
The images we shot were fantastic, as the light was shining in through the windows, doorways, and where the roof used to be, which added an eerie tint to the pictures. The blackjacks – that curse of the South African veld – took about half-an-hour for the three of us to pick off. At least the two humans wore jeans. Ginger was wearing a jersey, and that took up most of the time.
There was about another half-an-hour to go before the voice on the phone said: “You have reached your destination,” in that annoying tone.
Balfour got its name after the then British Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour, gave a speech on the train station platform in 1905. Before that, it was named after its founder, Frederick McHattie, as McHattiesburg. The town is described as a gorgeous getaway destination, in the heart of what is called “Cosmos country” – the south-western part of Mpumalanga. Apparently, this region promised vibrant wildflowers during autumn. Well, it didn’t exactly live up to that name and was neither the sort of place to write home from, nor buy a magnet for your fridge as memorabilia.
Well, it was certainly memorable. For all the wrong reasons. Cruising in past a large industrial area with several maize silos, we headed into the CBD. If you could call a few shops such as a Spar, a butchery, a Sasol petrol station, and strip malls along the main road selling blankets, and cellphone accessories a town centre.
The roads were riddled with potholes, and some had deteriorated to a mixture of sand and tarmac. The dust in the air mixed perfectly with the smoke pouring out of the cooking fires at every other pavement store, spaza shop and Sizabantu’s muti dispensary. A far cry from the cute town centre we envisioned.
Despite the initial disappointment, we were still determined to make the most of it. Lunch was first on the agenda, and we went around in circles, over the same railway bridge twice taking photos along the way. Russel was the first to experience the ire of the locals when he took a snapshot of the landscape bisected by the railway line which also included a handful of workers trudging through the veldt half-a-kilometre away who began to shout “No” as he raised his camera to his eye. He took the shot anyway.
Finding what seemed to be the local hangout for farmers and the few whites, given the colour bar that still exists, who lived in Balfour, Graspaleis Pub & Grill, we could choose any tables we wanted, because there was simply no-one else there apart from the bartender. The table by the fireplace it was, and we all enjoyed (including Ginger, who was allowed off-leash as it was empty) some burgers. Doggo has since developed a chronic illness that means she can’t share lunch with anyone anymore.
After lunch, we headed back into the small coalmining and maize-farming town to get some street photos, leaving our four-legged companion in the car, thankfully. We parked on the edge of town, by the strip mall where the streets were covered with rubbish.
Nicola had her pro DSLR, and a camera bag strapped on tight, while Russel carried his modest analogue-styled mirrorless compact camera. Perfect street photography gear, and initially, we were snapping away quite happily. None of the locals seemed to mind as we made our way down the main drag.
Until we ended up being threatened by four youths whose actual source of income – and citizenship – may very well have been illegal. After being told that trying to take photos in a public place was illegal, Nicola stupidly argued that, in South Africa, anyone can take a photograph that includes another person, without permission provided it is in a public space and doesn’t identify them. After we almost got beaten up for daring to explain the law we hit the road. The state of Balfour’s town centre is, sadly, much like other bigger cities like Roodepoort and Florida in Johannesburg’s West Rand.
The rest of Balfour seemed to comprise old, and somewhat dilapidated houses in some parts, and as the number of churches and bottle stores were typical of small towns. It did seem odd that there were guest houses along the roads. Why anyone would choose to stay in Balfour was unfathomable, and we didn’t see any of what the internet promised.
Next up was Val because we didn’t want to waste the day. A mere 45km away from Balfour, the road to Val bypasses Greylingstad – fill up there if you need fuel because there is next to nothing in Val, which is home to a mere 12 people. Literally next to nothing: an Anglican church, a hotel, restaurant, a sort-of curio shop and (for some reason) a police station. What there is, however, is peace and calm, and a large amount of history for those who want to have a walk around. Perhaps don’t take a walk down the train tracks – they’re still in use by the maize production industry.
The restaurant – more of a family-styled pub – was laid out on a lavish piece of lawn opposite St Francis Anglican church and is a great place to just relax. And let Ginger off the leash. The food was top-notch pub fare. First, we went past the police station and explained to the bemused officer that we wanted to see the cell in which Ghandi had apparently been imprisoned. After a bit of a history lesson that involved us explaining the police station’s heritage, we were allowed inside a cell which may or not served as a temporary home to the pioneer of non-violent resistance.
Ghandi is not the only historical detail to be found. Val – founded in 1986 – was the site of many Anglo-Boer War fights, with perhaps the most memorable tale being that of the Whiskey Train incident. Boer soldiers ambushed and blew up a train car – Val is on what was the main railway line between Johannesburg and Durban – carrying whisky, and Christmas cake. Having done so, they then shared their spoils. Scattered around the area are memorials to the dead.
If you want more of an in-depth historical experience chat with Rita Britz, who is the single most knowledgeable person about the dorpie she fiercely protects, and owns the pub.
There’s about 20km or so of a road that runs past more maize farms on the way in, and out, of Val. As usual, in rural areas, it is generally a patchwork of potholes. This trip, however, it seemed as if a government department had started fixing it – scraping the tar right off on one side – and then gone on holiday. It was like dodgems, except with potholes, bags of asphalt, and having to drive on the sandy verge. Highly recommended for adrenaline junkies.
That sense of no longer dealing with our day-to-day humdrum existence flourishes on these roads. There is a feeling of escaping life. Although our impression was that these oft-forgotten places are no longer sanctuaries, the small-town spirit is still there.
Maybe that’s why we insist on taking these day trips. The allure of Africa. Maybe there are better places to be when it comes to street photography. However, we enjoyed the moment, traveling along, the three of us looking out at the same landscape. All of us sensing deep down that where we were is where we wanted to be.
