Chevrolet Captiva a faithful partner in wedding adventure

The 2016 Chevrolet Captiva is just another soft-roader. Isn’t it? A special party of groomsmen head out on the whale coast for one last nostalgic road trip, and to find out what Chevrolet’ SUV is all about.

The back of the new Captiva is full of groomsmen. They’re sharing stories about the groom to be. We all went to varsity together – Drifter was his nickname – so there’s plenty to go around. The groom is miles away; the last few details of the wedding nag away. We leave Cape Town after a brush with some tyre walls on a karting track – literally, for some. The back row of the seven-seater becomes home to marinated fish, coolers of drinks, cameras, braai grids and a ukulele. We’re headed to a fairly unknown beach spot. We take everything with us, won’t leave anything behind. In the boot is enough wood to fill the luggage hold to the brim. In our chests builds an anxious excitement. I wonder what we’ll leave behind as one of our oldest friends commits to something new.

We cycle through phones and music and nostalgia. From the Chevrolet MyLink system it filters through the chatter. “I’ll give you three guesses who this band is! Remember this? C’mon!” It’s not an iPhone or standard Android, so CarPlay hasn’t picked up the info. On those, your own apps duplicate on the screen in front of you – the car becomes familiar and personal. I recognise the song but it’s not coming back to me. The sunroof drowns out the answer to the musical trivia as the ocean opens up in front of us.

At Rooi Els we stop for roadtrip food. We sit looking at the new Chevrolet Captiva – it’s exactly what you expect it to be. It fits perfectly into the mommy-wagon box. Space for all the kids – just enough for tog bags. A high ride height to feel in control, purposeful. Leather seats – no mess. An urban car, for city life. Good for groomsmen too. They load some more food into the back. I stand near enough to let the car recognise the key tucked in my pocket so we can bundle our new shopping in the back. “Don’t open the boot,” shouts each groomsman in turn as a new one emerges with arms full of grub. The wood peeks over the top of the seat. At R396,600, a typical softroader.

And yet, not.

For me, we settled on the term ‘groomsmaid’. I wasn’t sure it was quite right, but it stuck. We’re all friends, have been since a decade younger version of the groom pushed a Clarkson book over to me in History class, across the chasms of our awkward personalities. Many parties, late nights, makeshift hot-dogs, cups of rooibos tea and post-graduate degrees later, Drifter was the first to tie himself to a new buddy for life.

We take the long route to Hermanus – adding an hour to our trip – up the whale coast. A last minute wedding arrangement later, the groom drifts back into our midst. He relaxes. At a lookout point he stretches his arms out over the ocean and smiles. The ukulele comes out its box and I dance on a rock. We wind further up the route next to the Kogelberg mountains and despite a perfectly functional cruise control, I keep the Captiva’s 6-speed manual shifter moving.

Around and around the bends we go. “Does anyone get carsick?” I ask. No one. The roads are busy, but open enough to have some fun. “I’m jealous that you get to do all the driving,” says someone. Not a sentence you often hear in a softie, I think. I don’t offer to swap.

Four hours after we set out we hit the gravel. “Girl behind the wheel, I love it!” shouts our local fixer in excitement. “Let’s see what she’s made of.” He taps the Captiva’s bonnet. Slowly the gravel turns to soft beach sand. Over the dunes we go. “I trust you more than anyone else in the world,” says one of the guys when a particularly nasty piece of track comes up. I lock her in first. We fly up the hill and I stay off the softest parts. About a metre from clearing it, we sink into the sand.

The fixer runs back, ready to tow. “No no,” I say. “Let’s see if she’s more than a soft-roader. Everyone out the car.” Grumbles peel out all the doors and I get back in. Forwards, backwards, I rock her in the sand. A 2,4 litre engine and 230 NM of torque should matter – but in this sand, it’s all about the ground clearance. It’s enough – 171mm. I reverse down the hill, gather up speed, take it again and she sails over without a hitch. A few corners later a bakkie-load of local fishermen force us off the single track into the bushes. They stop mid-bend, hurling surprised, boozy catcalls at the female driver as I navigate the sandy bushes to get around them safely. “A women’s perspective of driving,” I think to myself. “There it is.”

We braai. We pretend to sandboard on empty beerboxes, swim in ice cold water, disappear in turn with the groom for one last heart-to-heart. We watch the sun set and huddle around a fire in a pit. We listen to reggae and eventually, begrudgingly, pack up our party of unlikely friends, and head back to the city.

It’s almost midnight. We haven’t refuelled since Cape Town, so we stop by at an eerie station. The bushes are watered and the Chevrolet Captiva quenches her thirst. Phones are plugged into everything from USB to Aux- to lighter-plug adapters – significant others are reassured. Minutes later we’re on the highway and heads are bobbing onto each other’s shoulders. Half-awake groomsmen talk about the politics of Africa’s future, the shifts in ideology, the changes in identity, the where-are-we-goings. Eventually the heads stop bobbing and all I hear is the slight drone of the engine. My own partner sits next to me, staring into the darkness that almost consumes the inside of the car through massive windows, lulling thoughts into the night like a rocking chair.

Two days later the new Captiva blends in with the cars in the wedding parking lot, the dust washed off by a Cape shower. My dress stands out in the row of navy chinos and white shirts as we rally around the groom, gawk over the rings, and I stress about handing them over. But like a flash it’s all over, and almost a single moment later we’re out on the porch for last-course nougats and coffee. ‘I’m so glad you were part of this,’ says one of the groomsmen to me. I think about labels and boxes, about the complexities of life and how badly we want things – and people – to be simple. And how the perfect fit is never about what it says on the box, but really just what fills the chasm between our labels and our complex lives.