I wasn’t looking for it. That’s the funny thing about old Volkswagens — they tend to appear when you least expect them, as if they know you’re in need of a small, unplanned moment of joy.
The other day, I was driving along Boyes Drive, with that sweep of the ocean on my right, then winding my way towards the Blue Route. And there it was in front of me: a Kombi of a certain vintage. White top, blue body, absolutely classic. A survivor.
Later that day — this is where the story gets magical — I spotted another. Pink body, white top, same era, same charm. Now, you don’t go expecting to see two in a single day. Kombis are scarce these days. Spotting one feels a bit like finding an old coin in the sand — spotting two is practically a winning lottery ticket.
I never owned one myself, but once, many years ago, I had the use of a Kombi camper for a surfing trip. It was kitted out with everything — a stove, fridge, washing basin — a little house on wheels. And the driving position! You sit so far forward you almost feel like you’re leaning into the road, other cars right up close, the engine humming behind you like a well-fed cat. It was wonderful.
Of course, Kombis have a long, winding history in South Africa. The first “split window” models, the Splitties, arrived in Cape Town in 1952. They were assembled locally from 1955 in Uitenhage, and for decades they were part of the scenery — hauling families to the coast, carrying bands’ gear to gigs, delivering bread, ice cream, or parcels. By the late ’60s, the “Bay Window” models took over, then the squarer T3s (the Microbus years) that stayed in production here until 2002. These days, the newer T4s, T5s and T6s arrive fully built, but they don’t quite have the same charm as the old air-cooled originals.
The thing about the Kombi is that it’s more than just transport. It’s a personality on wheels. In the 1970s it was the hippie van; in the 1980s it was the family weekend wagon; in the 1990s it became an icon of South African road trips.
And now? In 2025, the Kombi has split into two lives: the preserved classic and the reimagined workhorse.
On the one hand, you’ve got the collectors — the people who lovingly keep them on the road, using them for weekend getaways, long road trips, or showing off at car festivals. They’re part of a living history, trundling down the Garden Route or parked at a campsite in the Drakensberg.
On the other, you’ve got the entrepreneurs who’ve turned them into mobile businesses. I’ve seen Kombis selling coffee in Cape Town, serving tacos in Durban, and in one case, turned into a pop-up swimwear shop in Salt River. The ice cream vans of my childhood in Randburg were early versions of this — they’d drive through the neighbourhood playing that familiar, slightly tinny tune (most likely Greensleeves), and we’d run outside with our parents, coins in hand, for a soft serve cone.
I once even saw one cut up and used as décor inside a Checkers in Sandton. Slightly tragic, slightly brilliant.
The Kombi’s magic lies in that blend of utility and personality. It’s a vehicle that refuses to be just a vehicle. It carries memories — of summer holidays, roadside picnics, burnt coffee in aluminium percolators, and that feeling of being able to stop anywhere and call it home for the night.
Seeing two in one day brought all that back for me. And who knows? Maybe next time I’ll see three. At that point, I may have to pull over and buy a lottery ticket.
