Beervlei Dam, between Willowmore and Aberdeen. In 10 years, this was the first time we had seen a drop of water in it. (Photo: Tony Jackman)
Familiar words ring out, echoing in the deep kloof, as if the mountains on either side of you are having a conversation about that little blue car down there and what the humans inside might be like. Inside, your tiny eyes look up in wonder at either side. You park and step out into dappled sunlight. Something is scrawled on a rock, perhaps with a nail or a piece of sharp rock.
It is a rock once touched by CJ Langenhoven, who wrote Die Stem/The Call of South Africa, the older anthem of which a part is incorporated into the new anthem. As a person of words, I recognise fine words in others even if there are some sentiments with which I do not align, and Langenhoven’s words were of the highest echelon, whether in the Afrikaans version (Waar die kranse antwooord gee) or the English translation (Where the echoing crags resound). Often the Afrikaans version is better, which is why it pleases me that some of the best of Die Stem was revived in a verse of the current anthem.
Incomparable Meiringspoort. (Photo: Tony Jackman)
The most beautiful phrase, to the writer’s ear, is “ewige gebergtes”, which was translated in the old anthem as “everlasting mountains”. But that does not come close to gebergtes, which suggests mountains cumulatively, as if every mountain in the land is included in that single lovely word. Mountains of mountains. Majesty in rock. And that is what towers above you in Meiringspoort, where the blue car seems tiny and at odds with everything else, from the shrubs to the raptors in thermal float in the heavens to the very air that we breathe.
Hues of butterscotch and pistachio in the magnificent Meiringspoort. (Photos: Tony Jackman)
Cliff faces brushed with butterscotch and pistachio that the poet’s eye gazed upon in wonder and inspired him to put pencil to paper. Folds and crevices that hold space and time close, so that there seems barely a second since Langenhoven stood here and we stand here now. A linear relationship that has you trying to fathom the space/time continuum and the very meaning of existence. If I touch this rock do I touch the poet’s DNA? Did a seed from an older tree that the poet brushed his hand against fall to earth and birth the one that stands here now? And did somebody really think it was a good idea to scratch AV ♡ MW on this rock, oblivious of greater history than their (our) mere selves? While taking a selfie of themselves, I don’t doubt.
Ewige gebergtes that captured the imagination of CJ Langenhoven. (Photos: Tony Jackman)
Meiringspoort, between De Rust on the Klein Karoo side and Prince Albert on the Great Karoo side, is one of those few places that halts your breath and makes you doubt the meaning of yourself; how small you are, how slight; that a breeze might blow you away forever.
Blow you from Prince Albert, where you spent the weekend at the first Vino Camino festival, past a paradise of farmlands and into this glorious kloof en route to De Rust, where you’ve planned a night under the Klein Karoo starscape while you watch the fire and wait for the moment to braai the chops.
These are the moments you relish most in life, a solitary figure next to a fire and a windmill and the still heavens above. Only you and the unfathomable eternity, thinking about things greater than everything knowable. I come alive in these moments. The stupidity of nearly everything in our world recedes; the selfie-posing, lip-pouting inanity and endless carping and posturing on social media; the lavish spending on luxuries that are no match for the beauty of the ewige gebergtes; the demands that the rich and famous in the great cities make of those of us in the Fourth State who write about fine food while knowing that, though pampering palates is an enjoyable thing, standing alone next to some chops braaing in the Karoo night is somehow better.
Find me at the braai under the stars
I do love all that, don’t misunderstand me. The lavish meals and exquisite tastes, the gorgeous presentation that makes each dish more of a work of art than the last. But what is more important? Which would I give up if there was a gun to my head and I had to choose? You’d find me at the braai, under the stars.
This was the night I was most looking forward to while heading towards Prince Albert three days earlier. Not that every moment of the inaugural Vino Camino was not enjoyable; it was full of pleasures. But what pleases the taste buds and the stimulation of mental interaction with strangers is nothing compared with the commune between man and universe. Somebody at a book event shortly before the pandemic referred to me as a food philosopher; if that is so, I would add “life”. Because that’s what I write about: food and life. And as for the man who described me at a writers’ festival as “he writes recipes”, well, you evidently haven’t read what I write, mate.
Kabbelrus, De Rus. (Photos: Tony Jackman)
This, then, is the antidote to last week’s column about that splendid wine festival, and long may it run. But here in De Rust, at Kabbelrus, our favourite spot to stay over in this gorgeous Klein Karoo hamlet, all of that suddenly becomes just the nice things I did yesterday and the day before. Nice, but ultimately of little importance in any greater scheme of things.
And here is the fire, and now the flames flicker. Earlier, on arrival, I had scouted the werf for herbs. I found thyme in a planter in the far corner, and put these in a pot on the stove with the lambs’ tails, the zest of a scrawny lemon, and then went off again to see what else was growing nearby. And I found spekboom, and picked some and put that in the pot too. I had no wine or beer, but did have whiskey, so the tails were simmered in a stock of water, lemon juice, thyme, spekboom, whiskey and seasoning, and simmered until the skaapstertjies were tender.
Karoo Slaghuis in Prince Albert, where we bought the saddle chops. It was painted pink as the set for the butchery in the TV series of Sally Andrew’s Tannia Maria stories. (Photos: Tony Jackman)
I’d bought saddle chops at the Karoo Slaghuis in Prince Albert on the Saturday morning. I love the honesty of that: literally Karoo Slaughterhouse. Like the title of a Tarantino movie. Afrikaans is very good at getting straight to the point of something (nê, Charlize?).
Skaapstertjies cooking, and straight off the braai. (Photos: Tony Jackman)
They were juicy and tender and devoured under the stars, but the skaapstertjies were the dish of the day. The cooking stock that had tenderised them was strained and mixed with old brown sherry that was in a carafe on the dining room table, a gift from the charming and attentive manager, Anmarie. This was basted on the tails before they went on to the grid to turn crisp and wonderful. That’s my kind of food.
Coda
Beervlei Dam, between Willowmore and Aberdeen. In 10 years, this was the first time we had seen a drop of water in it. (Photo: Tony Jackman)
Driving home on Route 62 via Willowmore, we passed the Beervlei Dam, an arid puzzlement every time we’d driven past in more than a decade. The strange sight of a dam with no water to collect. It was full; water, water everywhere. A thrill of hope after those long, endless years of drought. My eyes welled up.
Days later, at home, I communed with an old friend who’s seen dire straits since his world shrivelled even further post-pandemic. He under his Hantam Karoo sky, me under mine in the Karoo Heartland a day’s drive away. He needed an ear; I had one to offer. Our night skies brightened. DM