Smoke, Ink & Silence – A Road Paved with Men, Grief, and Firelight

 

When the phone rang, it was just another call for help. Two strangers stuck in the Baviaanskloof, their truck needing repairs, and my workplace the closest place with a mechanic. They were just two men, dusty and road-worn. But something in them caught my eye—an ease, a lightness, something… other.

Let’s be honest: they made a first impression that left my platteland colleagues raising eyebrows and whispering in corners. Long hair, earrings, soft eyes, free spirits. No dreads, no drugs—just men living outside the rigid lines most of us follow without ever questioning. I was intrigued. They weren’t like the men I used to choose. They were more like the kind I always wished I had the courage to choose.

By the time their truck had a temporary fix and they were heading off to a nearby campsite to wait on parts, one of them had already asked me: “Come join us for a beer later?”

And I did.

Went against every proper intention I had. Meeting two strange men, alone, in the dark, at a bush campsite? I mean—we all watch true crime. Just saying. But I went. Something in me knew.

That Friday night was the start of five days that I will never, ever forget.

Tattooed and Tossed Aside

I need to step back here and mention something else that happened just before. A man I’d met a while back. We had a good weekend—talked, laughed, connected. Then radio silence. Two months of silence. Until recently.

Out of the blue, he contacted me again. He missed me, wanted to see me, even invited me to travel with him in his camper to Namibia. But let’s not forget: the reason he stopped talking to me in the first place was… I have too many tattoos.

Yup. That was the hill he chose to die on.

I wrote him back and said I still have the tattoos. But honestly, I now realize—I also have a spine, a soul, and a story. And if someone can’t see the beauty in the art etched into my skin, they won’t survive the wildness of my spirit.

So no. That story doesn’t get to go on the road with me.

Power and Peace

Back to my two free-spirited friends. Over those five days, something inside me began to shift. I felt powerful—almost dangerously so. But it wasn’t reckless. It was humble, grounded. We talked late into the night. Watched bats swirl in moonlight. Sat by fires. Ate food made on the flames. Took slow drives through the mountain pass and over to the Kouga Dam. Music, laughter, silence, all shared like sacred things.

One of them—him—he made me feel special. Beautiful, even. Not because he said it out loud, but because he looked at me like I mattered. Held me like I was made of something rare. And yes, there was intimacy. But not the kind that needs to be labeled. We made love without needing sex. Skin to skin, soul to soul. Just being. Together.

Letting Go, Letting In

Today, they left. He left. And as their trucks drove off, something in me cracked open. My heart feels both full and hollow. I got a message later from him: “Gosh girl, this made me sad to leave.”

He doesn’t speak emotions often, so those few words landed deep.

I think what shook me most was how easy it felt. Five days, and I remembered how to breathe. Not the shallow, stressed, overachieving breaths of the past—but the kind where air actually reaches your bones. I realized how long it’s been since I’ve just sat with myself.

And that brings me to a truth I’ve been running from.

Silence and Grief

I haven’t sat with my thoughts in a long time. Not really.

Not since my brother died. Not since I lost my grandson. Not even after my dad passed. And my granddaughter, alive but now disabled—that, too, is a grief. A silent, gnawing one I’ve hidden in the cupboards of my soul.

This blog, these words, my travels—all of it is teaching me to start pulling things out of those cupboards. I’ve never truly grieved. I’ve packed emotions away and moved forward like a soldier who didn’t have time to bleed. But now, with this new chapter—living in a caravan, hitting the road with my mom—I know the silence will come. The boredom. The stillness. And it’s in that quiet I’ll have to sit with what I’ve buried.

It terrifies me.

And yet, it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.

The Map Is Marked

I’ve booked the next place. The route is ready. And I know now that this isn’t running away—it’s running toward. Toward peace, toward simplicity, toward the wild joy of not needing permission to be myself.

These five days didn’t just fill me with new music, laughter, and late-night stories. They reminded me who I could be. Not the version molded by society or guilt or survival, but the one underneath it all—raw, real, and finally ready.

Final Words

To the man who changed me in five days:

You showed me what it looks like to live gently but deeply. To touch without taking. To be still and loud at the same time. I will always keep you in my heart. And whether it’s goodbye or see you later, I hope the road keeps you wild and kind.

As for me—I’m on my way.

Still tattooed. Still untamed. And finally, wide awake.