The big problem was that I hadn’t a clue where to find further supplies. I had asked every South African of my acquaintance whether they had heard of the stuff but nobody had any idea what I was talking about. There was no mention on the internet either, so far as I could see. Old Mr du Plessis had passed away some years earlier and taken the secret with him. Silly of me not to ask when he was still alive, but it was only in recent years that I had grown to truly depend on the magic powder, particularly at times of stress or peril, which happened with increasing frequency as I clambered my way up the greasy corporate pole. Du Plessis once told me he owned a house in Prince Albert, a village hundreds of miles inland, and that he had spent his early life on a farming station called Kruidfontein, which was too small to appear on most maps. That seemed a sensible place to start.
I sawed off the end of the toothbrush with my pocket knife and poured half the powder into a glass of warm water. It fizzed lightly and the water turned the familiar faint pink, like a subtle rosé wine. I swallowed the liquid and it crackled down my throat. Within minutes, my head cleared, my sore back eased and my limbs began to tingle. I briefly chewed a stick of gum then sealed the open end of the hollow toothbrush with the minty wad.
A quick shower and a bacon butty later, I was heading out of town. Table Mountain and the Cape Town metropolis receded into the haze in my rear-view mirror, and sprawling townships, roasting under corrugated iron, were replaced by rolling hills braided with rows of grapevines. The Hottentots Holland Mountains lay a few miles ahead, their rugged sandstone peaks glowing in the midday sun.
My destination was Vinkwyn Wine Cellars, a small producer on the outskirts of Robertson. I had done my research carefully back home by subscribing to obscure South African agricultural magazines, most of which needed translating from Afrikaans, poring over wine atlases and cross-referencing entries in my well-thumbed Jancis Robinson wine bible.
This particular winery was interesting for two reasons. Firstly, it had a new winemaker, a maverick named Wikus van Blerk who was conjuring incredible wines from his grapes and winning every gong going. A few award-winning wines always got the punters’ juices flowing and I had an eye on a good bit of PR back home.
Secondly, the source of his grapes was a new vineyard he had established in the barren interior of the Cape, hundreds of miles from the famous vineyards of Stellenbosch and Constantia. People said, quite openly, that he was mad, but there was no doubting the quality of his wines. The exact location of his experimental vineyard was a secret but it was believed to be in the Great Karoo, somewhere in the vicinity of Kruidfontein, Mr du Plessis’s old stomping ground.
Two hours after leaving Cape Town, Vinkwyn Wine Cellars emerged from the haze on the flat approach to Robertson. It looked rather decrepit from the outside but I knew that inside it would be packed with gleaming stainless steel tanks and state-of-the-art equipment. I parked in the dusty gravel near the entrance and strolled in to a small tasting room, moving slowly as the heat enveloped me after the cool of the air-conditioned car. It was deserted except for a small, bird-like woman in spectacles, standing behind the tasting bar, slowly polishing a wine glass with a grey rag.
“Good morning. I’m Felix Hart from Gatesave Supermarkets. I was hoping to see Wikus van Blerk,” I began brightly.
The bird-like woman glowered at me as she polished her glass and said nothing.
“Is Mr van Blerk here?”
“Praat Afrikaans.”
“No, sorry. I don’t speak Afrikaans. Do you speak English?”
“Praat Afrikaans.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t speak Afrikaans. Is there anyone else here?”
“Praat Afrikaans!”
“No. As I’ve said a couple of times now, I don’t speak Afrikaans. Sorry.” I sighed and tried to recall some words from my tourist guide. “Ek praat nie Afrikaans. I don’t speak Afrikaans. Is there anyone else here? Where is Mr van Blerk?”
“She’s not asking if you speak Afrikaans. She’s saying you must speak Afrikaans.” A wiry man in loose-fitting dungarees appeared at the door. He had a bald, slightly sunburnt head, and a sullen expression.
“Ah, hello. Sorry?”
“She’s saying ‘speak Afrikaans’. You should speak Afrikaans.”
“Right. Sadly, they don’t teach it in North London, sorry about that. I’ll be sure to subscribe to a correspondence course as soon as I’m back.”
“Don’t get clever with me, you British shit.” He spat on the floor.
Marvellous, I thought. I’ve arrived at the headquarters of the Afrikaans Linguistic Defence League. I was pretty sure this guy wasn’t Wikus van Blerk – I’d seen a couple of grainy photos and van Blerk was a big, bearded chap.
I decided to try a little charm. “I do apologise sir. I realise I should have a few more words of the local language. I’ve come a long way to visit Mr van Blerk, I’m a huge fan of his wines you see. My name is Hart by the way.” I strode over and offered my hand. He considered it for a moment then shook it. He had a warm, rather oily hand. He didn’t give his name.
“Good to meet you,” I said. “What do you do here?”
“I do what Mr van Blerk tells me.”
“Is there any chance I could meet Mr van Blerk?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I tried to phone from England many times but nobody ever picked up. And I don’t think you have an email address.”
He considered me for a moment. “You can’t see him if you haven’t made an appointment.”
“Well, may I make one now?”
“No. Mr van Blerk does not make appointments.”
I suspected a wind-up, but the man wasn’t smirking, he just stood there with a slightly resentful expression. I wondered whether money might help. Or a threat of violence, perhaps. Probably not, everyone was armed to the teeth round these parts. “Can I taste some wines please? I’d like to buy some.”
“We’re sold out. Mr van Blerk’s wines are very popular.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I’m here,” I said, with a touch of irritation. Calm down Felix, I thought. Let’s have a look around, see whether we can spot any clues. I wandered to the tasting bar. The bird-like woman kept her eyes on me, still polishing the same glass with the same tatty rag. She retreated a step so she was backed right up against the wall. “People say he is a very interesting character. What is he like to work with?”
“He is a madman.”
I looked up. “Really? In what way?”
“He only eats volstruise.”
“What is that?”
“Volstruis. The big bird.” He held his hand, palm down, above his head, to indicate something taller than himself.
What in God’s name, I wondered, is this lunatic yokel on about? “Where does he grow his grapes?”
“In a place no-one goes. He is mad, oh yes. As mad as a cave of wet bats.”
“Actually, I think the expression is ‘as mad as a box of frogs’.” I smiled, encouragingly.
“I know what a frog is, Englishman. And I am telling you that he is as mad as wet bats.”
“I’m not going to argue with you – wet bats it is.” There was little of interest at the tasting bar, nothing to taste at any rate. I sauntered back towards the strange man and tried to peer past him into the winery beyond. He drew himself up and pulled the door nearly closed. I wondered if van Blerk was hiding just round the corner and considered barging past to see. Charging through strange doors in a town where people carry guns is rarely a good tactic, however, so I resisted the temptation.
“Ok. Please would you tell Mr van Blerk that I came by and that I would really like to meet him? I’ll be in Robertson for a couple of days. Here’s my card.”
He took my card and continued to stand there, wordlessly.
“Oh, and just one other thing.” I removed the carefully folded cardboard packaging from my exhausted supply of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. I unfolded it and showed
it to him. “Do you know where I can find this?”
He looked at the packaging and his expression quickly changed – he appeared genuinely surprised. He snatched the folded box from me and disappeared through the door, closing it firmly behind him. At least I’d have an excuse to go after him if he didn’t return, I thought. I walked back to the front door and squinted at the vineyards stretching away in the blazing sun. It was very warm and there was no air conditioning in the tasting room. A trickle of sweat made its way down my back.
“And how did an Englishman come to be in possession of this?” boomed a voice behind me.
I wheeled round and there stood Wikus van Blerk. He was big, close to my height but older, in his late forties I guessed. He was well-built, with tanned, lined skin and a wild mop of curly, grey hair over piercing blue eyes. But his most striking feature was his huge, bushy beard, streaked with broad stripes of dark grey and white, giving him the appearance of a psychotic badger. Van Blerk held up the flattened box of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel between his thumb and forefinger and waggled it at me.
“Ah, Mr van Blerk! What a pleasure!” I beamed and strode over, arm outstretched.
But instead of taking my hand, van Blerk stretched out his other arm, finger extended, and prodded it into my chin. “I repeat, how did an Englishman come to be in possession of this?” His wild, pale eyes bored into mine and I took a small step back, rubbing my chin. His finger remained pointed, menacingly.
“A present from an old Afrikaner friend of mine. Do you know where I can find some more?”
“A present?” he boomed incredulously. “Loot, more like! The proceeds of murder, perhaps. You look like the murdering type.”
You can talk, I thought, inspecting his vast, multi-hued beard. It looked well groomed, however, with no evidence of the fragments of food one sees in the beard of a genuine madman. I wondered if he dyed it.
“No true boer would share his Madame Joubert’s with an Englishman!” he declared.
My spirits rose. Clearly, this lunatic was familiar with the product. The question was – how might I get my hands on more? “It was given to me by a true boer. His name was Mr du Plessis and he grew up in Kruidfontein.”
Van Blerk’s eyes narrowed and his expression changed from defiance to suspicion.
A light clicked on in my head and I was struck by one of those moments of intuition that have served me so well over the years. “I was an orphan, you see. He was my school teacher and the only father I ever knew. He gave me this as a going-away present. It was the last time we spoke… he died soon after.” I cast my eyes down and blinked a few times for effect. I don’t know what made me think of the orphan line but it was generally a rich seam to mine, especially with older, attractive women. And, although he was no woman, it did the trick with van Blerk, too.
“’n Weeskind!” he exclaimed, flinging his arms wide and embracing me in a bear hug, his luscious beard stroking my face. “Twee weeskinders! Now I understand. It is fate, it is fate.”
I returned his strong, manly hug. It wasn’t a complete lie, of course. If anything, it was rather more truth than fib – certainly more truthful than most of the stories I conjured up to placate authority figures, attractive women, and any bugger who had something I wanted to get my hands on.
He stood back, holding my shoulders in his brown, leathery hands. His eyes were wet and a fatherly smile had replaced the earlier snarl across his lips. “Kom, kom,” he turned and waved towards the door with one hand, while the other rested across my shoulders. I spotted the creepy bald assistant peering through the gap. He darted away before van Blerk pushed open the door.
I followed him through, into the winery. It was a huge old barn with a vaulted roof and a spotless concrete floor. A row of shining steel tanks, reaching nearly as high as the rafters, lined one wall, their polished skins reflecting the strip lights. Small chalk-boards, scrawled with indecipherable codes, hung from the tap at the base of each tank.
Just inside the door a modern, glass-topped table surrounded by office chairs was covered in glasses of wine, open bottles and a tottering pile of paperwork. Van Blerk waved to a chair as he strode to a wire-fronted cabinet filled with wine bottles lying on their sides. “So, you want to taste my wines,” he said, fiddling with a combination padlock.
“I guessed you might have been listening.”
He turned to me. “I was not listening. Everybody wants to taste my wines. Why should you be any different?”
Modest chap, I thought. But fair play to him, he was rumoured to make the best Shiraz in the Southern Hemisphere, possibly even rivalling the great wines of the Rhône. The problem was that there was never enough to meet demand, so his wines were never exported and customers had to beg to get hold of them. My task was to convince him to sell me some within the next five days. And to learn the source of Madame Joubert’s pick-me-up, of course.
He returned to the table with three bottles in each hand. He clunked them upright onto the table in a perfect row. I saw, to my surprise, that all his fine wines were sealed with screw-caps rather than corks.
“Corks are for cunts,” he stated, matter-of-factly, as he twisted each of them off.
I nodded sagely.
“Some winemakers like to stick a piece of filthy, diseased tree bark into the tops of their precious wines. Call it tradition. There is always a place for tradition, of course. But personally, I prefer my wine to taste of wine, not of baboon piss.” He poured me two glasses of deep-coloured red from two different bottles. “Compare and contrast,” he challenged, and stood watching me, arms folded.
I swirled and sniffed each glass, then took a sip from each. The wines were incredible, dark and brooding with a riot of herb and spice all wrestling for attention. I’d never tasted anything like it. I thought back to my months tasting with the buyers in the sample room at Charlie’s Cellar and my more recent tutorials at the Minstrels’ Academy, and racked my brains for the closest comparison. “They remind me slightly of a warm-vintage Côte Rôtie, but they make the French look like amateurs,” I declared, hoping I had struck the right balance of academic rigour and brown-nosing.
I had. Van Blerk slammed his hand on the glass table in approval. “Yes!” he shouted.
I decided to push my luck a little further. “Very different, of course. At first, I thought one might be younger than the other. But perhaps this one is from a slightly higher altitude.” I pointed to the slightly fresher, lighter tasting wine.
“Outstanding, Mr Hart! What they must teach you in those English schools!”
Apart from Latin, wanking and smoking marijuana, not a lot as I recalled. Still, at least the latter two were useful.
Van Blerk took the seat opposite and leant in, conspiratorially. “But you are wrong. The secret is the wind, not the altitude. The winds come in from the cold Southern Ocean and are funnelled through the mountain passes guarding the Groot Karoo. Our own Mistral, Mr Hart, and the secret of my wines!” He poured me two more glasses, from two new bottles. “Again! Tell me what you can taste.”
Thus passed a scorching afternoon on the outskirts of Robertson, van Blerk opening bottle after bottle and pouring glass after glass as I waxed lyrical about his wines and he boasted of the ever-more lunatic methods he employed in his mission to create the world’s finest Shiraz.
By the evening we were on first-name terms and the wine was beginning to catch up with me. Van Blerk too, was looking the worse for wear, the lower half of his beard stained red where, leaning over the table during a dramatic explanation of irrigation, his facial hair mopped back and forth through a puddle of Shiraz.
However, nightfall did not herald the end of his educational session. On and on we went, van Blerk presenting Port-like tawny wines, fortified with local grape spirit and tasting of figs and liquorice, before proceeding to dangerous ancient brandies, as smooth as liquid satin.
He declared that the following morning we would travel deep inland to see his vines a
nd only then would I understand the true soul of vinous Africa.
If I’d had the slightest idea what the soul of vinous Africa held in store for me, I would have sprinted back to my car that very second and driven like a maniac over the mountains and back to the safety of Cape Town.
***
The following morning I awoke, very unpleasantly, on a thin layer of straw in an unhitched tractor trailer parked behind the winery. The sky was already light, the sun just peeping over the Langeberg Mountains to the east. My head felt like a giant bruised bollock. I was still dressed, thankfully, and a faded blanket smelling of animal covered me.
I dragged myself off the trailer and stumbled round the side of the building, a hand over my eyes, as cymbals clashed repeatedly inside my skull. I caught myself just in time to avoid walking into a large black man in khaki safari clothing, an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Had there been a coup overnight?
“Molo! Unjani?” he declared, his voice triggering a brass crescendo in my head.
“Hello,” I croaked, picking up my pace and arriving back at my car. I opened the back and located my wash bag, empting the contents onto the roof of the car. I found the toothbrush in which I had smuggled my Madame Joubert’s and, pulling off the ball of chewing gum which sealed the end, I poured the last of the powder into a small bottle of hotel mineral water I’d had the foresight to pack. I waited for a second as it dissolved with a hiss, then necked the whole bottle, nearly choking on the soupy, lukewarm water. I leant on the car while I waited for the powder to work its magic.
I was suddenly aware that the gun-toting African man had followed me, and now stood over me. “I am Njongo. Molo!”
“Hello Njongo Molo,” I replied, shaking his hand. He twisted and raised his wrist so our handshake became a thumb-clasp, then returned to a conventional handshake.
“No. I am Njongo. Molo means ‘hello’.”
“Ah, sorry. Molo. Nice to meet you.”
“No,” he urged, “you say unjani.”
Njongo had unslung his rifle by now and was fiddling with the magazine. It was an AK47, the weapon of choice for militia, terrorists and criminals across the continent. I wasn’t aware that the sleepy winemaking town of Robertson had a rebel insurgency but I decided to humour the man.
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