“What do you taste Njongo?” Wikus asked.
Oh Christ, I thought, not another sensory interrogation.
Njongo took a mouthful and drew air through the wine like an expert sommelier, his bubbling joining the song of the crickets. He swallowed and paused. “I taste the stars, unhidden by cloud. The African earth, caressing the vine. The promise of distant rain. The breath of the leopard.”
Well, full marks for being a pretentious bastard, I thought.
“You see Felix?” said Wikus, triumphantly. “None of your blackcurrant and delicate vanilla kak there. That’s an African tasting note. And that’s why Njongo here will inherit my estate when I am gone!”
He’ll be inheriting quite soon, I thought, if you let him loose with that bloody rifle again.
“My own children have little interest in the soil,” Wikus sighed. “One is an accountant and the other,” he winced, “is in real estate.”
Another moment of silence seemed appropriate.
Five bottles of wine later, Wikus suggested we turn in for the night. He shovelled a heavy scoop of soil onto the dying embers while Njongo whistled and urinated noisily over a low bush a few yards away. After a pee of my own I crawled into my tent, an old, square-shaped thing made of heavy khaki canvas, presumably army surplus. The others continued to bang around for a few minutes – I heard the shovel clatter into the back of the pickup and the clink of empty wine bottles being collected. Well done chaps, I thought, good of you to clear up after your guest. I stripped down to my pants and rested my head on the backpack. Within a minute I had drifted off to sleep.
After what felt like a couple of minutes I woke to the sound of a cool box being dragged over the ground and more clinking of wine bottles. I wondered why my companions felt they had to tidy everything away that night. Probably an ex-military thing. I tried to drift off again but to my considerable annoyance, someone started sawing wood right outside the tent.
“For pity’s sake,” I shouted, “can you save the woodwork for the morning?” The sawing stopped for a few seconds then re-started. “For the love of God!” I exclaimed, sitting up and feeling for my torch. I unzipped the tent and clicked on the beam.
There was a large creature a few yards from my tent. It had the handle of a heavy cool box in its jaws and was dragging it, with very little effort, away from the pickup. Its hide was pale yellow with black rosette-shaped spots. I caught a glimpse of a long, thick tail before it dropped the box and turned its huge head towards the light. I took in the spotted face, the long whiskers, round ears atop a head sprouting with blond hair. Then it opened its mouth and gave the most terrifying, bone-shaking roar I have ever heard. It was so loud it made my ears sing and my ribcage rattle.
All I could do was stare at that mouth full of shining, pointed teeth, each as long as my finger. There was a pause, which felt like a minute but was probably a fraction of a second. Then the leopard sprang at me, mouth agape, accompanied by its terrible, wood-sawing growl.
I’ll be frank with you, I pissed my pants. I dropped the torch and by some reflex, tipped backwards onto my back, which probably saved my life. The creature’s head was inside my tent within a second, biting at the torch which spun around, illuminating its face from below in a rather unsettling way.
“Th… th… th… there’s a fucking leopard!” I yelled.
The creature’s broad shoulders were muscling aside the tent flaps by now and, to my horror, the torch had rolled further inside, towards me.
“Don’t open the zip!” called Wikus. “That’s the most important thing!”
“It’s INSIDE MY FUCKING TENT!” I screamed, kicking at the beast’s face with my bare feet.
It growled and pawed at my pedalling legs, but by some miracle it didn’t manage to catch any part of me in its mouth.
“Pretend you haven’t seen it,” shouted Wikus. “They don’t like being stared at.”
I grabbed the heavy torch and hurled it at the leopard’s head. It bounced off the creature’s skull and out of the tent, leaving me in complete darkness. The beast screeched in fury and I felt the air move as it lunged at me with a massive front paw.
“Shoot it shoot it fucking SHOOT IT!” I hollered, wriggling back as fast as I could.
At that moment the tent collapsed. I groped at the canvas covering my face as the back of my head bumped against the rear tent pole. I felt a heavy weight pin my foot and realised, to my horror, that I was caught in a dead end. There was no back exit to the tent, not that I’d have been able to find a zip in the pitch black, tangled in heavy canvas and with an enraged leopard mauling me to death.
This was it, my final moment on the earth. I didn’t think anything could be worse than the ostrich but this really was the bastard cherry on the cake. I whimpered and writhed from left to right in the vain hope of dodging those great jaws before they clamped down on my neck.
I felt the weight on my foot lift for a second and I hurled myself backwards, bringing my knees up and over my face. I ended up doing a reverse somersault and, by some astonishing unknown acrobatic skill, found myself on my feet in a half-crouch, swaddled from head to toe in khaki canvas, no doubt looking like an Iranian war widow after one too many drags on the hookah pipe. I was completely disorientated and blinded by the fabric obscuring my face, but I didn’t intend to hang around. With a roar of my own, I raced off in the direction I was facing.
Unfortunately, my legs were still tangled around the tent so I made it about a yard before tripping and hurtling through the air, unable to even raise my arms to break the fall. I braced myself for impact with the ground but instead I crashed head-first into a yielding object, which moved away with an appalled growl. My blood ran cold as I realised I’d dived straight back onto the leopard. I screamed as I lay on the earth, wrapped as tightly as a sausage, waiting for the coup de grâce from the creature’s jaws.
And then a shot rang out. Njongo! Thank God! There were shouts then I felt strong hands unrolling me from the canvas.
“Fok! Are you ok, seun?” Wikus was peering at me anxiously and running a torch up and down my body. I had a look myself, and was relieved to see no bite or claw marks. Apart from a throbbing forehead where I had crashed into the leopard, and a bruise on my ankle where it had pinned me with its paw, I appeared to be fine. My mental state, though, left a lot to be desired.
“Did you kill it?” I blurted.
“No,” said Njongo. “He ran away after you attacked him. I just fired in the air to make sure.”
“That was outstanding, seun!” said Wikus, with a big smile. “You took on that luiperd with your bare hands. What a man!”
Njongo gave a big grin and nodded. “You head-butted him right on the nose. He was not happy!”
“Yes, well. I don’t like having my sleep interrupted.” I pulled myself to my feet, unsteadily, for the second time that day. “I think I’ll sleep in the truck.”
“Go ahead. You’ve earned your spurs my boy. As your reward, I will sell you a barrel of my finest Shiraz. And tomorrow we will visit Madame Joubert. Keep the windows closed though.”
Excellent! Progress at last. Shame I had to wrestle a bastard leopard to get it. “I certainly will. I’ll take that too.” I held out my hand and Njongo passed me the Kalashnikov.
I didn’t care whether the next animal I saw was a baby panda – if any more of Africa’s wildlife decided to pay me a visit, the fuckers would be getting it right between the eyes.
3.4
Madame Joubert
I woke with a pounding headache, my forehead bruised and swollen. It had been an uncomfortable night on the back seat of the pickup and I’d slept fitfully, waking at the sound of every little buzz and chirrup from the bush crickets.
Njongo had made a small fire and was boiling water. He clinked an enamel cup against the vehicle’s window. I sat up and opened the door.
“Coffee, for the fighter!” he grinned.
I swapped his AK47 for the coffee and took a sip. It
was hot and filthy tasting. “Thanks Njongo. Any bacon?”
“When we get to Prince Albert.”
Wikus and Njongo packed the tents, shovelled earth onto the embers of the morning fire and with a spray of gravel from the tyres, we were on our way. The peaks of the Swartberg mountains loomed closer, a jagged black wall with an orange-pink halo from the rising sun on the far side. Within an hour, we were in the foothills, with boulder-strewn slopes rising steeply either side of the unsurfaced track. Every so often Wikus swerved to avoid a rock that had rolled onto the road and we bumped in and out of potholes constantly.
The slopes grew steeper still and Wikus changed to a low gear. We were now in the legendary Swartberg Pass, built in the nineteenth century by Thomas Bain. An engineering genius, he recruited a gang of several hundred desperate convicts who were granted their freedom in exchange for building the road. Most of them perished of course, whether from thirst, avalanche or simply plunging hundreds of feet off the pass itself. As Wikus skidded and thumped his way around the treacherous hairpin bends, wheels just inches from the stomach-churning drops below, I wondered if we’d join them. I decided to open a beer and reached into the tepid cool box. If this was to be my last journey, I may as well die drinking.
“Die top!” declared Wikus and we skidded to a halt to take in the view. The green patchwork of the Little Karoo was laid out behind us, while ahead a dry rocky gorge carried the road down to the arid vastness of the Great Karoo, stretching to the horizon. An icy wind howled through shattered rockfalls, with tough little shrubs peeping out from patches of gritty earth.
“Down there is where I have planted my special vines,” shouted Wikus over the wind, pointing to the gorge that marked the gateway to the Great Karoo.
We began our descent through the north-facing side of the Swartberg. It was more terrifying than the ascent, as Wikus slid his way around the hairpin bends. Even Njongo looked a little grim, bracing himself against the dashboard with both hands. I drank my beer quickly, attempting to coincide my swigs with the gaps between potholes.
After half an hour or so, the slope became less fierce and Wikus turned left off the road onto a poorly defined track. We bounced over loose rocks for a mile or so before we came to a large vineyard planted on the rocky slopes, the vines bushy and bright green in the sun.
“The only vineyard in the Swartberg Pass,” declared Wikus proudly. “No irrigation. It is watered by an underground river that flows beneath the vines.” He walked to the back of the pickup and opened a cool box, removing what appeared to be a cow’s horn and a clear plastic container filled with soil. He took the shovel and walked into the vineyard, between two rows of vines. We followed.
After five minutes we were in the middle of the vineyard and Wikus began to dig, muttering technical facts and figures about his wine. “Seventeen hectolitres per hectare. Still too high,” he puffed. “Diurnal temperature twenty-five degrees. Altitude five hundred and eighteen metres. Wind shear…”
“What the hell is he doing?” I whispered to Njongo.
“He is respecting the vineyard. Mr van Blerk is one hundred percent biodynamic.”
These days everyone knows about biodynamism, of course. Every fashionable young winemaker worth his marketing budget is skipping around a vineyard somewhere saying prayers under the full moon and spraying cocktails of armpit sweat and chamomile over the vines. But back in the 1990s this was the sole preserve of environmental fruit-loops and deranged German spiritualists.
After he’d dug a hole about a foot deep, Wikus opened the plastic box and used his hands to scoop out the contents, pushing it into the hollow cow horn. The rich aroma of manure wafted up my nostrils. I made a mental note not to let him handle the food at the next barbecue until he’d washed his hands.
Wikus placed the dung-filled horn in the hole and, muttering in Afrikaans, shovelled the soil over it.
“Next year he will dig up the horn and use it as fertiliser,” explained Njongo.
“Of course he will,” I replied. Still, the guy was winning wine competitions left, right and centre, so who was I to criticise?
I suddenly became aware that somebody was standing behind us. I turned to see a short African man with tight black curly hair holding a bow. He had a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and wore a short animal hide skirt paired with a Manchester United top.
“There’s a man with a bow and arrow here,” I said to Wikus quietly.
Wikus looked up and smiled. “Ah, Jethrow. Ay-ses!” He gave a little click with his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he said the final word.
“Jethrow is Khoisan,” he explained to me. “A descendent of the original inhabitants of Southern Africa. His people lived here first, before the whites sailed in and the black tribes migrated south from the Congo. His language is made up of clicks and complex nasal sounds.”
“Ay-ses!” he repeated to Jethrow, with the same tongue-slapping click.
“Yeah, I’m good thanks,” replied Jethrow, fiddling with his bow.
“This is a biodynamic vineyard, which means I employ only the original inhabitants of this land to watch over it,” continued Wikus. “We have problems with baboons eating the ripe grapes, so Jethrow’s job is to keep them under control. But he must use only traditional methods, which is the reason for the bow and arrow.”
“I would prefer the AK47,” sighed Jethrow, gesturing at Njongo’s assault rifle.
“Ho-am ta-ra,” replied Wikus, giving another lip-smacking click. “I’m telling Jethrow I agree,” he explained to me, “but we must work with nature, not against it.”
I don’t recall you using a bloody bow and arrow to shoot the ostrich, I thought. Still, if you’d tried, we’d all have been disembowelled and rogered to death by that vicious bastard before you’d loosed off more than a couple of chunkers, so it’s just as well.
“Where do you live?” I asked Jethrow.
“Over there,” he pointed to a low, round hut covered in rough thatch at the far edge of the vineyard, looking rather like a furry igloo.
“It’s a traditional Khoisan dwelling, in perfect harmony with its surroundings,” added Wikus.
“That must be nice,” I lied.
“It’s fucking freezing and there’s no internet,” muttered Jethrow.
Now that Wikus had buried his horn of turds and shown me the vineyard, we walked back to the truck. “Ay-sa ha-re,” he said to Jethrow solemnly, with another click.
“Yeah, bye Mr van Blerk,” replied Jethrow.
“A good man, Jethrow,” sighed Wikus as he started the pickup, “but I worry that he has lost some of his heritage.”
We returned along the rocky track to the Swartberg Pass and turned left for the final descent into the Great Karoo. The road widened and returned to tarmac as we entered the village of Prince Albert.
“We will stay overnight at the Hotel Beaufort, and tomorrow you meet my client Mr Hudson,” announced Wikus. “He is an inspirational man who loves the soil. He owns a number of very nice eco-safari lodges throughout Africa and he is my biggest customer by far. He trusted my judgement and lent me the money to plant this vineyard, so I am in his debt. He is having a braai tomorrow at his family home and we are all invited.”
“Very nice. But what about…?”
“I have not forgotten Felix! We will go to see Madame Joubert right now. She lives on a farm just outside town.”
It took only a minute to drive through the centre of Prince Albert. The high street was dotted with pretty Victorian houses and there were no other cars on the road. We crossed a small river and turned up a gently rising track which, after a few hundred yards, ended at a large, pleasingly symmetrical farmhouse with a long open stoep and corrugated metal roof.
Wikus turned off the engine and turned to me. “There is one thing to be aware of when you meet Madame Joubert,” he began, but we were interrupted by a woman’s voice.
“Mr van Blerk! You have come to see us again. What a pleasure! And you
have brought guests, how wonderful!”
A tall, modestly dressed lady with a coffee-coloured complexion waved from the stoep. She rose from a wicker chair and jogged down the path to our vehicle. Wikus climbed out of the pickup and kissed her on one cheek.
“So sorry to impose, Renay,” he began, apologetically.
“No problem at all Wikus!” she replied, patting his arm. She peered through the windscreen. “Who are your guests? Ah! Molo Njongo!”
Njongo smiled and waved from his seat.
“And this is Felix. He is English but less bad than most of them. An old Afrikaans friend made him a gift of the Lekker Medisyne…”
“And he requires replenishment,” nodded Renay.
I climbed out of the back seat, stiffly, and held out my hand. A little Felix Hart charm wouldn’t go amiss, I decided, and I gave a flirtatious smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Madame Joubert.”
Wikus snorted and the woman laughed. “I am not Madame Joubert! I am just the housekeeper. Madame is inside.” She took my outstretched hand and led me up the garden path.
Wikus didn’t follow. “We’ll wait an hour for you here. Any later and we’ll see you at the Hotel Beaufort. Don’t let her get you drunk.”
We climbed the four steps to the stoep and Renay waved me to a seat. “I will let Madame know you are here.” She slid the screen door open and disappeared inside, pulling it closed behind her. After a short while, the door trundled on its rollers once more and she invited me inside. “Madame is ready now. She is in her workshop.”
I followed her into a reception room, furnished with an old sideboard and chairs in dark yellowwood. Several huge dried protea flowers stood in a metal vase on the sideboard and the room smelt of rich polish. Renay guided me through to a much larger hallway, her sensible black shoes clacking on the wooden boards.
She opened one of the doors leading off the hall and poked her head through, murmuring a few words of Afrikaans to the occupant. She withdrew her head, pulled the door closed and smiled. “One moment please.” Then after a minute she turned back and opened the door. “You may go in now.”
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